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ROADS OF DESTINY 


BOOKS BY O. HENRY 


CABBAGES AND KINGS 
HEART OF THE WEST 
OPTIONS 

ROADS OF DESTINY 
ROLLING STONES 
SIXES AND SEVENS 
STRICTLY BUSINESS 
THE FOUR MILLION 
THE GENTLE GRAFTER 
THE TRIMMED LAMP 
THE VOICE OF THE CITY 
WAIFS AND STRAYS 
WHIRLIGIGS 




ROADS OF 
DESTINY 

BY 

O. HENRY c , ■ X 

\ 



GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK, TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
1922 






2 ^ °^h 




COPYRIGHT, 1903, 1909, BY 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY THE COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, I904, 1905, 1906, BY THE RIDGWAY COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, 1902, 1903, BY AINSLEE’s MAGAZINE COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY THE METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY THE PHILLIPS PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATE* 

AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Roads op Destiny 3 

II. The Guardian of the Accolade .... 29 

III. The Discounters of Money 40 

IV. The Enchanted Profile 48 

V. “ Next to Reading Matter ” 57 

VI. Art and the Bronco 74 

VII. Phcebe 88 

VIII. A Double-dyed Deceiver 107 

IX. The Passing of Black Eagle 120 

X. A Retrieved Reformation 134 

XI. Cherchez la Femme 144 

XII. Friends in San Rosario 155 

XIII. The Fourth in Salvador 171 

XIV. The Emancipation of Billy 184 

XV. The Enchanted Kiss 197 

XVI. A Departmental Case 213 

XVII. The Renaissance at Charleroi .... 227 
XVIII. On Behalf of the Management .... 243 

XIX. Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking . . 258 

XX. The Halberdier of the Little Rheinschloss 278 

XXI. Two Renegades 289 

XXII. The Lonesome Road i*. t ., 302 

















































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ROADS OF DESTINY 





I 


ROADS OF DESTINY 

I go to seek on many roads 
What is to be. 

True heart and strong, with love to light — 

Will they not bear me in the fight 
To order, shun or wield or mould 
My Destiny? 

Unpublished Poems of David Mignot . 

The song was over. The words were David’s; the air, one 
of the countryside. The company about the inn table ap- 
plauded heartily, for the young poet paid for the wine. Only 
the notary, M. Papineau, shook his head a little at the lines, 
for he was a man of books, and he had not drunk with the rest. 

David went out into the village street, where the night air 
drove the wine vapour from his head. And then he remem- 
bered that he and Yvonne had quarrelled that day, and that 
he had resolved to leave his home that night to seek fame and 
honour in the great world outside. 

“When my poems are on every man’s tongue,” he told him- 
self, in a fine exhilaration, “she will, perhaps, think of the 
hard words she spoke this day.” 

Except the roysterers in the tavern, the village folk were 
abed. David crept softly into his room in the shed of his 
father’s cottage and made a bundle of his small store of cloth- 
ing. With this upon a staff, he set his face outward upon the 
road that ran from Vernoy. 

He passed his father’s herd of sheep huddled in their 
nightly pen — the sheep he herded daily, leaving them to 

a 


4 


Roads of Destiny 

scatter while he wrote verses on scraps of paper. He saw a 
light yet shining in Yvonne's window, and a weakness shook 
his purpose of a sudden. Perhaps that light meant that she 
rued, sleepless, her anger, and that morning might — But, 
no! His decision was made. Vernoy was no place for him. 
Not one soul there could share his thoughts. Out along that 
road lay his fate and his future. 

Three leagues across the dim, moonlit champaign ran the 
road, straight as a ploughman's furrow. It was believed in 
the village that the road ran to Paris, at least; and this name 
the poet whispered often to himself as he walked. Never 
so far from Vernoy had David travelled before. 

THE LEFT BRANCH 

Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puz- 
zle . It joined with another and a larger road at right angles . 
David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the road 
to the left. 

Upon this more important highway were, imprinted in the 
dust, wheel tracks left by the recent passage of some vehicle. 
Some half an hour later these traces were verified by the sight 
of a ponderous carriage mired in a little brook at the bottom 
of a steep hill. The driver and postilions were shouting and 
tugging at the horses' bridles. On the road at one side stood 
a huge, black-clothed man and a slender lady wrapped in a 
long, light cloak. 

David saw the lack of skill in the efforts of the servants. 
He quietly assumed control of the work. He directed the 
outriders to cease their clamour at the horses and to exercise 
their strength upon the wheels. The driver alone urged the 
animals with his familiar voice; David himself heaved a 
powerful shoulder at the rear of the carriage, and with one 
harmonious tug the great vehicle rolled up on solid ground. 
The outriders climbed to their places. 


Roads of Destiny 5 

David stood for a moment upon one foot. The huge gen- 
tleman waved a hand. “You will enter the carriage/' he 
said, in a voice large, like himself, but smoothed by art and 
habit. Obedience belonged in the path of such a voice. 
Brief as was the young poet’s hesitation, it was cut shorter 
still by a renewal of the command. David’s foot went to the 
step. In the darkness he perceived dimly the form of the 
lady upon the rear seat. He was about to seat himself op- 
posite, when the voice again swayed him to its will. “You 
will sit at the lady’s side.” 

The gentleman swung his great weight to the forward seat. 
The carriage proceeded up the hill. The lady was shrunk, 
silent, into her corner. David could not estimate whether she 
was old or young, but a delicate, mild perfume from her clothes 
stirred his poet’s fancy to the belief that there was loveliness 
beneath the mystery. Here was an adventure such as he had 
often imagined. But as yet he held no key to it, for no word 
was spoken while he sat with his impenetrable companions. 

In an hour’s time David perceived through the window that 
the vehicle traversed the street of some town. Then it stopped 
in front of a closed and darkened house, and a postilion 
alighted to hammer impatiently upon the door. A latticed 
window above flew wide and a nightcapped head popped out. 

“Who are ye that disturb honest folk at this time of night? 
My house is closed. ’Tis too late for profitable travellers to 
be abroad. Cease knocking at my door, and be off.” 

“Open!” spluttered the postilion, loudly; “open for Mon- 
seigneur the Marquis de Beaupertuys.” 

“Ah !” cried the voice above. “Ten thousand pardons, 
my lord. I did not know — the hour is so late — at once 
shall the door be opened, and the house placed at my lord’s 
disposal.” 

Inside was heard the clink of chain and bar, and the door 
was flung open. Shivering with chill and apprehension, the 


6 Roads of Destiny 

landlord of the Silver Flagon stood., half clad, candle in hand, 
upon the threshold. 

David followed the marquis out of the carriage. “Assist 
the lady,” he was ordered. The poet obeyed. He felt her 
small hand tremble as he guided her descent. “Into the 
house,” was the next command. 

The room was the long dining-hall of the tavern. A 
great oak table ran down its length. The huge gentleman 
seated himself in a chair at the nearer end. The lady sank 
into another against the wall, with an air of great weariness. 
David stood, considering how best he might now take his leave 
and continue upon his way. 

“My lord,” said the landlord, bowing to the floor, “h-had 
I ex-expected this honour, entertainment would have been 
ready. T-t-there is wine and cold fowl and m-m-maybe — ” 

“Candles,” said the marquis, spreading the fingers of one 
plump white hand in a gesture he had. 

“Y-yes, my lord.” He fetched half a dozen candles, lighted 
them, and set them upon the table. 

“If monsieur would, perhaps, deign to taste a certain Bur 
gundy — there is a cask — ” 

“Candles,” said monsieur, spreading his fingers. 

“Assuredly — quickly — I fly, my lord.” 

A dozen more lighted candles shone in the hall. The great 
bulk of the marquis overflowed his chair. He was dressed 
in fine black from head to foot save for the snowy ruffles at 
his wrist and throat. Even the hilt and scabbard of hi? 
sword were black. His expression was one of sneering pride. 
The ends of an upturned moustache reached nearly to hi? 
mocking eyes. 

The lady sat motionless, and now David perceived that, 
she was young, and possessed of pathetic and appealing 
beauty. He was startled from the contemplation of her for- 
lorn loveliness by the booming voice of the marquis. 


7 


Roads of Destiny 

“What is your name and pursuit ? 0 

“David Mignot. I am a poet.” 

The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to his eyes. 

“How do you live ? 0 

“I am also a shepherd; I guarded my father’s flock , 0 David 
answered, with his head high, but a flush upon his cheek. 

“Then listen, master shepherd and poet, to the fortune 
you have blundered upon to-night. This lady is my niece, 
Mademoiselle Lucie de Varennes. She is of noble descent 
and is possessed of ten thousand francs a year in her own 
right. As to her charms, you have but to observe for your- 
self. If the inventory pleases your shepherd’s heart, she 
becomes your wife at a word. Do not interrupt me. To- 
night I conveyed her to the chateau of the Comte de Villemaur, 
to whom her hand had been promised. Guests were present; 
the priest was waiting; her marriage to one eligible in rank 
and fortune was ready to be accomplished. At the altar this 
demoiselle, so meek and dutiful, turned upon me like a leop- 
ardess, charged me with cruelty and crimes, and broke, before 
the gaping priest, the troth I had plighted for her. I swore 
there and then, by ten thousand devils, that she should marry 
the first man we met after leaving the chateau, be he prince, 
charcoal-burner, or thief. You, shepherd, are the first. 
Mademoiselle must be wed this night. If not you, then an- 
other. You have ten minutes in which to make your decision. 
Do not vex me with words or questions. Ten minutes, shep- 
herd; and they are speeding . 0 

The Marquis drummed loudly with his white fingers upon 
the table. He sank into a veiled attitude of waiting. It was 
as if some great house had shut its doors and windows against 
approach. David would have spoken, but the huge man’s 
bearing stopped his tongue. Instead, he stood by the lady’s 
chair and bowed. 

'’'Mademoiselle,” he said, and he marvelled to find his 




8 Roads of Destiny 

words flowing easily before so much elegance and beauty. 
“You have heard me say I was a shepherd. I have also had 
the fancy, at times, that I am a poet. If it be the test of 
a poet to adore and cherish the beautiful, that fancy is now 
strengthened. Can I serve you in any way, mademoiselle ?” 

The young woman looked up at him with eyes dry and 
mournful. His frank, glowing face, made serious by the 
gravity of the adventure, his strong, straight figure and the 
liquid sympathy in his blue eyes, perhaps, also, her imminent 
need of long-denied help and kindness, thawed her to sudden 
tears. 

“Monsieur,” she said, in low tones, “you look to be true 
and kind. He is my uncle, the brother of my father, and 
my only relative. He loved my mother, and he hates me 

because I am like her. He has made my life one long ter- 

ror. I am afraid of his very looks, and never before dared 
to disobey him. But to-night he would have married me to 
a man three times my age. You will forgive me for bringing 
this vexation upon you, monsieur. You will, of course, decline 
this mad act he tries to force upon you. But let me thank 

you for your generous words, at least. I have had none 

spoken to me in so long.” 

There was now something more than generosity in the 
poet's eyes. Poet he must have been, for Yvonne was for- 
gotten ; this fine, new loveliness held him with its freshness and 
grace. The subtle perfume from her filled him with strange 
emotions. His tender look fell warmly upon her. She leaned 
to it, thirstily. 

“Ten minutes,” said David, “is given me in which to do 
what I would devote years to achieve. I will not say I pity 
you, mademoiselle ; it would not be true — I love you. I 
cannot ask love from you yet, but let me rescue you from 
this cruel man, and, in time, love may come. I think I have 
a future, i will not always be a shepherd. For the present 


Roads of Destiny 9 

I will cherish you with all my heart and make your life less 
sad. Will you trust your fate to me, mademoiselle ?” 

“Ah, you would sacrifice yourself from pity !” 

“From love. The time is almost up, mademoiselle. ,, 

“You will regret it, and despise me.” 

“I will live only to make you happy, and myself worthy 
of you.” 

Her fine small hand crept into his from beneath her 
cloak. 

“I will trust you,” she breathed, “with my life. And — 
and love — may not be so far off as you think. Tell him. 
Once away from the power of his eyes I may forget.” 

David went and stood before the marquis. The black fig- 
ure stirred, and the mocking eyes glanced at the great hall 
clock. 

“Two minutes to spare. A shepherd requires eight min- 
utes to decide whether he will accept a bride of beauty and 
income ! Speak up, shepherd, do you consent to become 
mademoiselle's husband?” 

“Mademoiselle,” said David, standing proudly, “has done 
me the honour to yield to my request that she become my 
wife.” 

“W T ell said!” said the marquis. “You have yet the mak- 
ing of a courtier in you, master shepherd. Mademoiselle could 
have drawn a worse prize, after all. And now to be done with 
the affair as quick as the Church and the devil will allow!” 

He struck the table soundly with his sword hilt. The 
landlord came, knee-shaking, bringing more candles in the 
hope of anticipating the great lord’s whims. “Fetch a 
priest,” said the marquis, “a priest; do you understand? In 
ten minutes have a priest here, or — ” 

The landlord dropped his candles and flew. 

The priest came, lieavy-eyed and ruffled. He made David 
Mignot and Lucie de Varennes man and wife, pocketed a 


10 Roads of Destiny 

gold piece that the marquis tossed him, and shuffled out agais 
into the night. 

“Wine” ordered the marquis, spreading his ominous fin- 
gers at the host. 

‘Till glasses/’ he said, when it was brought. He stood 
up at the head of the table in the candlelight, a black moun- 
tain of venom and conceit, with something like the memory 
of an old love turned to poison in his eye, as it fell upon his 
niece. 

“Monsieur Mignot,” he said, raising his wineglass, “drink 
after I say this to you: You have taken to be your wife one 
who will make your life a foul and wretched thing. The 
blood in her is an inheritance running black lies and red ruin. 
She will bring you shame and anxiety. The devil that de- 
scended to her is there in her eyes and skin and mouth that 
stoop even to beguile a peasant. There is your promise, mon- 
sieur poet, for a happy life. Drink your wine. At last, 
mademoiselle, I am rid of you.” 

The marquis drank. A little grievous cry, as if from a 
sudden wound, came from the girl’s lips. David, with his 
glass in his hand, stepped forward three paces and faced the 
marquis. There was little of a shepherd in his bearing. 

“Just now,” he said, calmly, “you did me the honour to 
call me ‘monsieur.’ May I hope, therefore, that my marriage 
to mademoiselle has placed me somewhat nearer to you in — 
let us say, reflected rank — has given me the right to stand 
more as an equal to monseigneur in a certain little piece of 
business I have in my mind?” 

“You may hope, shepherd,” sneered the marquis. 

“Then,” said David, dashing his glass of wine into the 
contemptuous eyes that mocked him, “perhaps you will con- 
descend to fight me.” 

The fury of the great lord outbroke in one sudden curse 
like a blast from a horn. He tore his sword from its black 


11 


Roads of Destiny 

sheath; he called to the hovering landlord: “A sword there, 
for this lout!” He turned to the lady, with a laugh that 
chilled her heart, and said: “You put much labour upon me, 
madame. It seems I must find you a husband and make you 
a widow in the same night.” 

“I know not sword-play,” said David. He flushed to make 
the confession before his lady. 

“ ‘I know not sword-play/ ” mimicked the marquis. 
“Shall we fight like peasants with oaken cudgels? Hola! 
Fran5ois, my pistols!” 

A postilion brought two shining great pistols ornamented 
with carven silver, from the carriage holsters. The marquis 
tossed one upon the table near David’s hand. “To the other 
end of the table,” he cried; “even a shepherd may )?ull a 
trigger. Few of them attain the honour to die by the weapon 
of a De Beaupertuys.” 

The shepherd and the marquis faced each other from the 
ends of the long table. The landlord, in an ague of terror, 
clutched the air and stammered: “M-M-Monseigneur, for 
the love of Christ ! not in my house ! — do not spill blood — 
it will ruin my custom — ” The look of the marquis, threaten- 
ing him, paralyzed his tongue. 

“Coward,” cried the lord of Beaupertuys, “cease chatter- 
ing your teeth long enough to give the word for us, if you 
can.” 

Mine host’s knees smote the floor. He was without a vo- 
cabulary. Even sounds were beyond him. Still, by gestures 
he seemed to beseech peace in the name of his house and cus- 
tom. 

“I Will give the word,” said the lady, in a clear voice. 
She went up to David and kissed him sweetly. Her eyes 
were sparkling bright, and colour had come to her cheek. 
She stood against the wall, and the two men levelled their 
pistols for her count. 


12 


Roads of Destiny 

“ Un — deux — trois!” 

The two reports came so nearly together that the candles 
flickered but once. The marquis stood, smiling, the fingers 
of his left hand resting, outspread, upon the end of the table. 
David remained erect, and turned his head very slowly, search- 
ing for his wife with his eyes. Then, as a garment falls from 
where it is hung, he sank, crumpled, upon the floor. 

With a little cry of terror and despair, the widowed maid 
ran and stooped above him. She found his wound, and then 
looked up with her old look of pale melancholy. “Through 
his heart,” she whispered. “Oh, his heart!” 

“Come,” boomed the great voice of the marquis, “out with 
you to the carriage! Daybreak shall not find you on my 
hands. Wed you shall be again, and to a living husband, 
this night. The next we come upon, my lady, highwayman 
or peasant. If the road yields no other, then the churl that 
opens my gates. Out with you to the carriage!” 

The marquis, implacable and huge, the lady wrapped again 
in the mystery of her cloak, the postilion bearing the weapons 
— all moved out to the waiting carriage. The sound of its 
ponderous wheels rolling away echoed through the slumbering 
village. In the hall of the Silver Flagon the distracted land- 
lord wrung his hands above the slain poet’s body, while the 
flames of the four and twenty candles danced and flickered 
on the table. 


THE RIGHT BRANCH 

Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. 
It joined with another and a larger road at right angles . 
David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the road 
to the right • 

Whither it led he knew not, but he was resolved to leave Ver- 
noy far behind that night. He travelled a league and then 
passed a large chateau which showed testimony of recent enter- 


13 


Roads of Destiny 

tainment. Lights shone from every window; from the great 
stone gateway ran a tracery of wheel tracks drawn in the dust 
by the vehicles of the guests. 

Three leagues farther and David was weary. He rested 
and slept for a while on a bed of pine boughs at the road- 
side. Then up and on again along the unknown way. 

Thus for five days he travelled the great road, sleeping 
upon Nature’s balsamic beds or in peasants* ricks, eating of 
their black, hospitable bread, drinking from streams or the 
willing cup of the goatherd. 

At length he crossed a great bridge and set his foot within 
the smiling city that has crushed or crowned more poets than 
all the rest of the world. His breath came quickly as Paris 
sang to him in a little undertone her vital chant of greeting — 
the hum of voice and foot and wheel. 

High up under the eaves of an old house in the Rue Conti, 
David paid for lodging, and set himself, in a wooden chair, 
to his poems. The street, once sheltering citizens of import 
and consequence, was now given over to those who ever follow 
in the wake of decline. 

The houses were tall and still possessed of a ruined dignity, 
but many of them were empty save for dust and the spider. 
By night there was the clash of steel and the cries of brawlers 
straying restlessly from inn to inn. Where once gentility 
abode was now but a rancid and rude incontinence. But here 
David found housing commensurate to his scant purse. Day- 
light and candlelight found him at pen and paper. 

One afternoon he was returning from a foraging trip to 
the lower world, with bread and curds and a bottle of thin 
wine. Halfway up his dark stairway he met — or rather 
came upon, for she rested on the stair — a young woman of a 
beauty that should balk even the justice of a poet’s imagina- 
tion. A loose, dark cloak, flung open, showed a rich gown 
beneath, Her eyes changed swiftly with every little shade 


14 


Roads of Destiny 

of thought. Within one moment they would be round and 
artless like a child’s, and long and cozening like a gypsy’s. 
One hand raised her gown, undraping a little shoe, liigh- 
heeled, with its ribbons dangling, untied. So heavenly she 
was, so unfitted to stoop, so qualified to charm and command ! 
Perhaps she had seen David coming, and had waited for his 
help there. 

Ah, would monsieur pardon that she occupied the stairway, 
but the shoe ! — the naughty shoe ! Alas ! it would not re- 
main tied. Ah ! if monsieur would be so gracious ! 

The poet’s fingers trembled as he tied the contrary ribbons. 
Then he would have fled from the danger of her presence, 
but the eyes grew long and cozening, like a gypsy’s, and held 
him. He leaned against the balustrade, clutching his bottle 
of sour wine. 

“You have been so good,” she said, smiling. “Does mon- 
sieur, perhaps, live in the house?” 

“Yes, madame. I — I think so, madame.” 

“Perhaps in the third story, then?” 

“No, madame; higher up.” 

The lady fluttered her fingers with the least possible ges- 
ture of impatience. 

“Pardon. Certainly I am not discreet in asking. Mon- 
sieur will forgive me ? It is surely not becoming that I should 
inquire where he lodges.” 

“Madame, do not say so. I live in the — ” 

“No, no, no; do not tell me. Now I see that I erred. But 
I cannot lose the interest I feel in this house and all that is 
in it. Once it was my home. Often I come here but to 
dream of those happy days again. Will you let that be my 
excuse?” 

“Let me tell you, then, for you need no excuse,” stam- 
mered the poet. “I live in the top floor — the small room 
where the stairs turn.” 


Roads of Destiny 15 

"In the front room?” asked the lady, turning her head 
sidewise. 

“The rear, madame.” 

The lady sighed, as if with relief. 

“I will detain you no longer, then, monsieur,” she said, 
employing the round and artless eye. “Take good care of 
my house. Alas ! only the memories of it are mine now. 
Adieu, and accept my thanks for your courtesy/’ 

She was gone, leaving but a smile and a trace of sweet 
perfume. David climbed the stairs as one in slumber. But 
he awoke from it, and the smile and the perfume lingered 
with him and never afterward did either seem quite to leave 
him. This lady of whom he knew nothing drove him to lyrics 
of eyes, chansons of swiftly conceived love, odes to curling 
hair, and sonnets to slippers on slender feet. 

Poet he must have been, for Yvonne was forgotten; this 
fine, new loveliness held him with its freshness and grace. 
The subtle perfume about her filled him with strange emotions. 

On a certain night three persons were gathered about a 
table in a room on the third floor of the same house. Three 
chairs and the table and a lighted candle upon it was all the 
furniture. One of the persons was a huge man, dressed in 
black. His expression was one of sneering pride. The ends 
of his upturned moustache reached nearly to his mocking eyes. 
Another was a lady, young and beautiful, with eyes that could 
be round and artless, like a child’s, or long and cozening, like 
a gipsy’s, but were now keen and ambitious, like any other 
conspirator’s. The third was a man of action, a combatant, 
a bold and impatient executive, breathing fire and steel. He 
was addressed by the others as Captain Desrolles. 

This man struck the table with his fist, and said, with con- 
trolled violence: 

“To-night. To-night as he goes to midnight mass. I am 


16 


Roads of Destiny 

tired of the plotting that gets nowhere. I am sick of signals 
and ciphers and secret meetings and such baragouin. Let us 
be honest traitors. If France is to be rid of him, let us kill 
in the open, and not hunt with snares and traps. To-night, 
I say. I back my words. My hand will do the deed. To- 
night, as he goes to mass. ,, 

The lady turned upon him a cordial look. Woman, how- 
ever wedded to plots, must ever thus bow to rash courage. 
The big man stroked his upturned moustache. 

“Dear captain,” he said, in a great voice, softened by habit, 
“this time I agree with you. Nothing is to be gained by 
waiting. Enough of the palace guards belong to us to make 
the endeavour a safe one.” 

“To-night,” repeated Captain Desrolles, again striking the 
table. “You have heard me, marquis; my hand will do the 
deed.” 

“But now,” said the huge man, softly, “comes a question. 
Word must be sent to our partisans in the palace, and a signal 
agreed upon. Our stanchest men must accompany the royal 
carriage. At this hour what messenger can penetrate so far 
as the south doorway? Ribout is stationed there; once a mes- 
sage is placed in his hands, all will go well.” 

“I will send the message,” said the lady. 

“You, countess?” said the marquis, raising his eyebrows. 
“Your devotion is great, we know, but — ” 

“Listen!” exclaimed the lady, rising and resting her hands 
upon the table; “in a garret of this house lives a youth from 
the provinces as guileless and tender as the lambs he tended 
there. I have met him twice or thrice upon the stairs. I 
questioned him, fearing that he might dwell too near the 
room in which we are accustomed to meet. He is mine, if I 
will. He writes poems in his garret, and I think he dreams 
of me. He will do what I say. He shall take the message 
to the palace,” 


17 


Roads of Destiny 

The marquis rose from his chair and bowed. “You did 
not permit me to finish my sentence, countess/' he said. “I 
would have said: 'Your devotion is great, but your wit and 
charm are infinitely greater.' " 

While the conspirators were thus engaged, David was pol- 
ishing some lines addressed to his amorette d’escalier. He 
heard a timorous knock at his door, and opened it, with a 
great throb, to behold her there, panting as one in straits, 
with eyes wide open aftd artless, like a child's. 

“Monsieur," she breathed, “I come to you in distress. I 
believe you to be good and true, and I know of no other help. 
How I flew through the streets among the swaggering men! 
Monsieur, my mother is dying. My uncle is a captain of 
guards in the palace of the king. Some one must fly to bring 
him. May I hope — " 

“Mademoiselle," interrupted David, his eyes shining with 
the desire to do her service, “your hopes shall be my wings. 
Tell me how I may reach him." 

The lady thrust a sealed paper into his hand. 

“Go to the south gate — the south gate, mind — and say 
to the guards there, ‘The falcon has left his nest/ They 
will pass you, and you will go to the south entrance to the 
palace. Repeat the words, and give this letter to the man 
who will reply 'Let him strike when he will.' This is the 
password, monsieur, entrusted to me by my uncle, for now 
when the country is disturbed and men plot against the king's 
life, no one without it can gain entrance to the palace grounds 
after nightfall. If you will, monsieur, take him this letter 
so that my mother may see him before she closes her eyes." 

“Give it me." said David, eagerly. “But shall I let you 
return home through the streets alone so late? I — " 

“No, no — fly. Each moment is like a precious jewel. 
Some time," said the lady, with eyes long and cozening, like a 
gipsy's, “I will try to thank you for your goodness." 


18 


Roads of Destiny 

The poet thrust the letter into his breast, and bounded down 
the stairway. The lady, when he was gone, returned to the 
room below. 

The eloquent eyebrows of the marquis interrogated her. 

“He is gone,” she said, “as fleet and stupid as one of his 
own sheep, to deliver it.” 

The table shook again from the batter of Captain Desrol- 
les’s fist. 

“Sacred name!” he cried; “I have left my pistols behind! 
I can trust no others.” 

“Take this,” said the marquis, drawing from beneath his 
cloak a shining, great weapon, ornamented with carven silver. 
“There are none truer. But guard it closely, for it bears 
my arms and crest, and already I am suspected. Me, I must 
put many leagues between myself and Paris this night. To- 
morrow must find me in my chateau . After you, dear count- 
ess.” 

The marquis puffed out the candle. The lady, well cloaked, 
and the two gentlemen softly descended the stairway and 
flowed into the crowd that roamed along the narrow pave- 
ments of the Rue Conti. 

David sped. At the south gate of the king’s residence a 
halberd was laid to his breast, but he turned its point with 
the words: “The falcon has left his nest.” 

“Pass, brother,” said the guard, “and go quickly.” 

On the south steps of the palace they moved to seize him, 
but again the mot de passe charmed the watchers. One among 
them stepped forward and began: “Let him strike — ” but a 
flurry among the guards told of a surprise. A man of keen 
look and soldierly stride suddenly pressed through them and 
seized the letter which David held in his hand. “Come with 
me,” he said, and led him inside the great hall. Then he 
tore open the letter and read it. He beckoned to a man uni- 
formed as an officer of musketeers, who was passing. “Cap- 


19 


Roads of Destiny 

tain Tetreau, you will have the guards at the south entrance 
and the south gate arrested and confined. Place men known 
to be loyal in their places.” To David he said: “Come with 

J) 

me. 

He conducted him through a corridor and an anteroom into 
a spacious chamber, where a melancholy man, sombrely 
dressed, sat brooding in a great, leather-covered chair. To 
that man he said: 

“Sire, I have told you that the palace is as full of traitors 
and spies as a sewer is of rats. You have thought, sire, that 
it was my fancy. This man penetrated to your very door 
by their connivance. He bore a letter which I have inter- 
cepted. I have brought him here that your majesty may no 
longer think my zeal excessive.” 

“I will question him,” said the king, stirring in his chair. 
He looked at David with heavy eyes dulled by an opaque 
film. The poet bent his knee. 

“From where do you come?” asked the king. 

“From the village of Vernoy, in the province of Eure-et- 
Loir, sire.” 

“What do you follow in Paris?” 

“I — I would be a poet, sire.” 

“What did you in Vernoy?” 

“I minded my father's flock of sheep.” 

The king stirred again, and the film lifted from his eyes. 

“Ah ! in the fields !” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“You lived in the fields; you went out in the cool of the 
morning and lay among the hedges in the grass. The flock 
distributed itself upon the hillside; you drank of the living 
stream; you ate your sweet, brown bread in the shade, and 
you listened, doubtless, to blackbirds piping in the grove. Is 
not that so, shepherd?” 

“It is, sire,” answered David, with a sigh; “and to the 


20 Roads of Destiny 

bees at the flowers, and, maybe, to the grape gatherers singing 
on the hill.” 

“Yes, ye s,” said the king, impatiently; “maybe to them; 
but surely to the blackbirds. They whistled often, in the 
grove, did they not?” 

“Nowhere, sire, so sweetly as in Eure-et-Loir. I have 
endeavoured to express their song in some verses that I have 
written.” 

“Can you repeat those verses?” asked the king, eagerly. 
“A long time ago I listened to the blackbirds. It would be 
something better than a kingdom if one could rightly con- 
strue their song. And at night you drove the sheep to the 
fold and then sat, in peace and tranquillity, to your pleasant 
bread. Can you repeat those verses, shepherd?” 

“They run this way, sire,” said David, with respectful ar- 
dour: 

“ ‘Lazy shepherd, see your lambkins 
Skip, ecstatic, on the mead; 

See the firs dance in the breezes, 

Hear Pan blowing at his reed. 

“Hear us calling from the tree-tops. 

See us swoop upon your flock; 

Yield us wool to make our nests warm 
In the branches of the — * ” 

“If it please your majesty,” interrupted a harsh voice, “I 
will ask a question or two of this rhymester. There is little 
time to spare. I crave pardon, sire, if my anxiety for your 
safety offends.” 

“The loyalty,” said the king, “of the Duke d’Aumale is 
too well proven to give offence.” He sank into his chair, and 
the film came again over his eyes. 

“First,” said the duke, “I will read you the letter he 
brought : 


21 


Roads of Destiny 

“ ‘To-night is the anniversary of the dauphin’s death. If he goes, 
as is his custom, to midnight mass to pray for the soul of his son, 
the falcon will strike, at the corner of the Rue Esplanade. If this be 
his intention, set a red light in the upper room at the southwest cor- 
ner of the palace, that the falcon may take heed.’ 

“Peasant,” said the duke, sternly, “you have heard these 
words. Who gave you this message to bring ?” 

“My lord duke,” said David, sincerely, “I will tell you. 
A lady gave it me. She said her mother was ill, and that this 
writing would fetch her uncle to her bedside. I do not know 
the meaning of the letter, but I will swear that she is beau- 
tiful and good.” 

“Describe the woman,” commanded the duke, “and how you 
came to be her dupe.” 

“Describe her!” said David with a tender smile. “You 
would command words to perform miracles. Well, she is 
made of sunshine and deep shade. She is slender, like the 
alders, and moves with their grace. Her eyes change while 
you gaze into them; now round, and then half shut as the 
sun peeps between two clouds. When she comes, heaven is 
all about her; when she leaves, there is chaos and a scent of 
hawthorn blossoms. She came to me in the Rue Conti, num- 
ber twenty-nine. ,, 

“It is the house,” said the duke, turning to the king, “that 
we have been watching. Tha»ks to the poet’s tongue, we have 
a picture of the infamous Countess Quebedaux.” 

“Sire and my lord duke,” said David, earnestly, “I hope 
my poor words have done no injustice. I have looked into 
that lady’s eyes. I will stake my life that she is an angel, 
letter or no letter.” 

The duke looked at him steadily. “I will put you to the 
proof,” he said, slowly. “Dressed as the king, you shall, 
yourself, attend mass in his carriage at midnight. Do you 
accept the test?” 


22 


Roads of Destiny 

David smiled. “I have looked into her eyes/’ he said. 
“I had my proof there. Take yours how you will.” 

Half an hour before twelve the Duke d’Aumale* with his 
own hands* set a red lamp in a southwest window of the palace. 
At ten minutes to the hour* David* leaning on his arm* 
dressed as the king* from top to toe* with his head bowed in 
his cloak* walked slowly from the royal apartments to the 
waiting carriage. The duke assisted him inside and closed 
the door. The carriage whirled away along its route to the 
cathedral. 

On the qui vive in a house at the corner of the Rue Espla- 
nade was Captain Tetreau with twenty men* ready to pounce 
upon the conspirators when they should appear. 

But it seemed that* for some reason* the plotters had 
slightly altered their plans. When the royal carriage had 
reached the Rue Christopher* one square nearer than the 
Rue Esplanade* forth from it burst Captain Desrolles* with 
his band of would-be regicides* and assailed the equipage. 
The guards upon the carriage* though surprised at the prema- 
ture attack* descended and fought valiantly. The noise of 
conflict attracted the force of Captain Tetreau* and they came 
pelting down the street to the rescue. But* in the meantime* 
the desperate Desrolles had torn open the door of the King’s 
carriage* thrust his weapon against the body of the dark fig- 
ure inside* and fired. 

Now* with loyal reinforcements at hand* the street rang 
with cries and the rasp of steel* but the frightened horses had 
dashed away. Upon the cushions lay the dead body of the 
poor mock king and poet* slain by a ball from the pistol of 
Monseigneur* the Marquis de Beaupertuys. 

THE MAIN ROAD 

Three leagues , then , the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. 
It joined with another and a larger road at right angles • 


Roads of Destiny 23 

David stood, uncertain, for a while, and then sat himself to 
rest upon its side. 

Whither those roads led he knew not. Either way there 
seemed to lie a great world full of chance and peril. And 
then, sitting there, his eye fell upon a bright star, one that 
he and Yvonne had named for theirs. That set him think- 
ing of Yvonne, and he wondered if he had not been too 
hasty. Why should he leave her and his home because a few 
hot words had come between them? Was love so brittle a 
thing that jealousy, the very proof of it, could break it? 
Mornings always brought a cure for the little heartaches of 
evening. There was yet time for him to return home with- 
out any one in the sweetly sleeping village of Vernoy being 
the wiser. His heart was Yvonne's; there where he had lived 
always he could write his poems and find his happiness. 

David rose, and shook off his unrest and the wild mood 
that had tempted him. He set his face steadfastly back 
along the road he had come. By the time he had retravelled 
the road to Vernoy, his desire to rove was gone. He passed 
the sheepfold, and the sheep scurried, with a drumming flutter, 
at his late footsteps, warming his heart by the homely sound. 
He crept without noise into his little room and lay there, 
thankful that his feet had escaped the distress of new roads 
that night. 

How well he knew woman's heart ! The next evening 
Yvonne was at the well in the road where the young con- 
gregated in order that the cure might have business. The 
corner of her eye was engaged in a search for David, albeit 
her set mouth seemed unrelenting. He saw the look; braved 
the mouth, drew from it a recantation and, later, a kiss as they 
walked homeward together. 

Three months afterward they were married. David's father 
was shrewd and prosperous. He gave them a wedding that 
was heard of three leagues away. Both the young people 


24 


Roads of Destiny 

were favourites in the village. There was a procession in the 
streets, a dance on the green; they had the marionettes and a 
tumbler out from Dreux to delight the guests. 

Then a year, and David’s father died. The sheep and the 
cottage descended to him. He already had the seemliest wife 
in the village. Yvonne’s milk pails and her brass kettles were 
bright — ouf ! they blinded you in the sun when you passed 
that way. But you must keep your eyes upon her yard, for 
her flower beds were so neat and gay they restored to you 
your sight. And you might hear her sing, aye, as far as the 
double chestnut tree above Pere Gruneau’s blacksmith forge. 

But a day came when David drew out paper from a long- 
shut drawer, and began to bite the end of a pencil. Spring 
had come again and touched his heart. Poet he must have 
been, for now Yvonne was well-nigh forgotten. This fine 
new loveliness of earth held him with its witchery and grace. 
The perfume from her woods and meadows stirred him 
strangely. Daily had he gone forth with his flock, and 
brought it safe at night. But now he stretched himself under 
the hedge and pieced words together on his bits of paper. 
The sheep strayed, and the wolves, perceiving that difficult 
poems make easy mutton, ventured from the woods and stole 
his lambs. 

David’s stock of poems grew larger and his flock smaller. 
Yvonne’s nose and temper waxed sharp and her talk blunt. 
Her pans and kettles grew dull, but her eyes had caught their 
flash. She pointed out to the poet that his neglect was re- 
ducing the flock and bringing woe upon the household. David 
hired a boy to guard the sheep, locked himself in the little 
room in the top of the cottage, and wrote more poems. The 
boy, being a poet by nature, but not furnished with an outlet 
in the way of writing, spent his time in slumber. The wolves 
lost no time in discovering that poetry and sleep are practi- 
cally the same; so the flock steadily grew smaller* Yvonne's 


25 


Roads of Destiny 

ill temper increased at an equal rate. Sometimes she would 
stand in the yard and rail at David through his high win- 
dow. Then you could hear her as far as the double chest- 
nut tree above Pere Gruneau’s blacksmith forge. 

M. Papineau, the kind, wise, meddling old notary, saw 
this, as he saw everything at which his nose pointed. He went 
to David, fortified himself with a great pinch of snuff, and 
said: 

“Friend Mignot, I affixed the seal upon the marriage cer- 
tificate of your father. It would distress me to be obliged to 
attest a paper signifying the bankruptcy of his son. But 
that is what you are coming to. I speak as an old friend. 
Now, listen to what I have to say. You have your heart set, 
I perceive, upon poetry. At Dreux, I have a friend, one 
Monsieur Bril — Georges Bril. He lives in a little cleared 
space in a houseful of books. He is a learned man; he 
visits Paris each year; he himself has written books. He will 
tell you when the catacombs were made, how they found out 
the names of the stars, and why the plover has a long bill. 
The meaning and the form of poetry is to him as intelligent 
as the baa of a sheep is to you. I will give you a letter to 
him, and you shall take him your poems and let him read them. 
Then you will know if you shall write more, or give your 
attention to your wife and business. ,, 

“Write the letter,” said David, “I am sorry you did not 
speak of this sooner.” 

At sunrise the next morning he was on the road to Dreux 
With the precious roll of poems under his arm. At noon he 
wiped the dust from his feet at the door of Monsieur Bril. 
That learned man broke the seal of M. Papineau’s letter, and 
sucked up its contents through his gleaming spectacles as the 
sun draws water. He took David inside to his study and sat 
him down upon a little island beat upon by a sea of books. 

Monsieur Bril had a conscience. He flinched not even at 


26 


Roads of Destiny 

a mass of manuscript the thickness of a finger length and 
rolled to an incorrigible curve. He broke the back of the 
roll against his knee and began to read. He slighted noth- 
ing; he bored into the lump as a worm into a nut, seeking for 
a kernel. 

Meanwhile, David sat, marooned, trembling in the spray 
of so much literature. It roared in his ears. He held no 
chart or compass for voyaging in that sea. Half the world, 
he thought, must be writing books. 

Monsieur Bril bored to the last page of the poems. Then 
he took off his spectacles and wiped them with his handker* 
chief. 

“My old friend, Papineau, is well?” he asked. 

“In the best of health,” said David. 

“How many sheep have you, Monsieur Mignot?” 

“Three hundred and nine, when I counted them yesterday. 
The flock has had ill fortune. To that number it has de- 
creased from eight hundred and fifty.” 

“You have a wife and a home, and lived in comfort. The 
sheep brought you plenty. You went into the fields with 
them and lived in the keen air and ate the sweet bread of 
contentment. You had but to be vigilant and recline there 
upon nature’s breast, listening to the whistle of the black- 
birds in the grove. Am I right thus far?” 

“It was so,” said David. 

“I have read all your verses,” continued Monsieur Bril, 
his eyes wandering about his sea of books as if he conned the 
horizon for a sail. “Look yonder, through that window, 
Monsieur Mignot ; tell me what you see in that tree.” 

“I see a crow,” said David, looking. 

“There is a bird,” said Monsieur Bril, “that shall assist 
me where I am disposed to shirk a duty. You know that bird. 
Monsieur Mignot; he is the philosopher of the air. He is 
happy through submission to his lot. None so merry or full- 


27 


Roads of Destiny 

crawed as he with his whimsical eye and rollicking step. The 
fields yield him what he desires. He never grieves that his 
plumage is not gay, like the oriole's. And you have heard. 
Monsieur Mignot, the notes that nature has given him? Is 
the nightingale any happier, do you think?” 

David rose to his feet. The crow cawed harshly from his 
tree. 

“I thank you. Monsieur Bril,” he said, slowly. “There 
was not, then, one nightingale note among all those croaks?” 

“I could not have missed it,” said Monsieur Bril, with a 
sigh. “I read every word. Live your poetry, man ; do not 
try to write it any more.” 

“I thank you,” said David, again. “And now I will be 
going back to my sheep.” 

“If you would dine with me,” said the man of books, “and 
overlook the smart of it, I will give you reasons at length.” 

“No,” said the poet, “I must be back in the fields cawing 
at my sheep.” 

Back along the road to Vernoy he trudged with his poems 
under his arm. When he reached his village he turned into 
the shop of one Zeigler, a Jew out of Armenia, who sold 
anything that came to his hand. 

“Friend,” said David, “wolves from the forest harass my 
sheep on the hills. I must purchase firearms to protect them. 
What have you?” 

“A bad day, this, for me, friend Mignot,” said Zeigler, 
spreading his hands, “for I perceive that I must sell you a 
weapon that will not fetch a tenth of its value. Only last 
week I bought from a peddler a waggon full of goods that 
he procured at a sale by a commissionaire of the crown. 
The sale was of the chateau and belongings of a great lord 
— I know not his title — who has been banished for con- 
spiracy against the king. There are some choice firearms in 
the lot. This pistol — oh, a weapon fit for a prince ! — it 


28 


Roads of Destiny 

shall be only forty francs to you, friend Mignot — if I lost 
ten by the sale. But perhaps an arquebuse — ” 

“This will do,” said David, throwing the money on the 
counter. “Is it charged?” 

“I will charge it,” said Zeigler. “And, for ten francs 
more, add a store of powder and ball.” 

David laid his pistol under his coat and walked to his cot- 
tage. Yvonne was not there. Of late she had taken to gad- 
ding much among the neighbours. But a fire was glowing 
in the kitchen stove. David opened the door of it and thrust 
his poems in upon the coals. As they blazed up they made 
a singing, harsh sound in the flue. 

“The song of the crow !” said the poet. 

He went up to his attic room and closed the door. So 
quiet was the village that a score of people heard the roar 
of the great pistol. They flocked thither, and up the stairs 
where the smoke, issuing, drew their notice. 

The men laid the body of the poet upon his bed, awk- 
wardly arranging it to conceal the torn plumage of the poor 
black crow. The women chattered in a luxury of zealous 
pity. Some of them ran to tell Yvonne. 

M. Papineau, whose nose had brought him there among the 
first, picked up the weapon and ran his eye over its silver 
mountings with a mingled air of connoisseurship and grief. 

“The arms,” he explained, aside, to the cure, “and crest of 
Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys.” 


II 


THE GUARDIAN OF THE ACCOLADE 

NoT the least important of the force of the Weymouth 
Bank was Uncle Bushrod. Sixty years had Uncle Bushrod 
given of faithful service to the house of Weymouth as chattel, 
servitor, and friend. Of the colour of the mahogany bank 
furniture was Uncle Bushrod — thus dark was he externally; 
white as the uninked pages of the bank ledgers was his 
soul. Eminently pleasing to Uncle Bushrod would the com- 
parison have been; for to him the only institution in existence 
worth considering was the Weymouth Bank, of which he was 
something between porter and generalissimo-in-charge. 

Weymouth lay, dreamy and umbrageous, among the low 
foothills along the brow of a Southern valley. Three banks 
there were in Weymouthville. Two were hopeless, misguided 
enterprises, lacking the presence and prestige of a Weymouth 
to give them glory. The third was The Bank, managed by 
the Weymouths — and Uncle Bushrod. In the old Wey- 
mouth homestead — the red brick, white-porticoed mansion, 
the first to your right as you crossed Elder Creek, coming into 
town — lived Mr. Robert Weymouth (the president of the 
bank), his widowed daughter, Mrs. Vesey — called “Miss 
Letty” by every one — and her two children, Nan and Guy. 
There, also in a cottage on the grounds, resided Uncle Bush- 
rod and Aunt Malindy, his wife. Mr. William Weymouth 
(the cashier of the bank) lived in a modern, fine house on the 
principal avenue. 

Mr. Robert was a large, stout man, sixty-two years of age, 

29 


30 


Roads of Destiny 

with a smooth, plump face, long iron-gray hair and fiery blue 
eyes. He was high-tempered, kind, and generous, with a 
youthful smile and a formidable, stern voice that did not al- 
ways mean what it sounded like. Mr. William was a milder 
man, correct in deportment and absorbed in business. The 
Weymouths formed The Family of Weymouthville, and were 
looked up to, as was their right of heritage. 

Uncle Bushrod was the bank's trusted porter, messenger, 
vassal, and guardian. He carried a key to the vault, just as 
Mr. Robert and Mr. William did. Sometimes there was 
ten, fifteen, or twenty thousand dollars in sacked silver stacked 
on the vault floor. It was safe with Uncle Bushrod. He 
was a Weymouth in heart, honesty, and pride. 

Of late Uncle Bushrod had not been without worry. It 
was on account of Marse Robert. For nearly a year Mr. 
Robert had been known to indulge in too much drink. Not 
enough, understand, to become tipsy, but the habit was get- 
ting a hold upon him, and every one was beginning to notice 
it. Half a dozen times a day he would leave the bank and 
step around to the Merchants and Planters' Hotel to take a 
drink. Mr. Robert's usual keen judgment and business ca- 
pacity became a little impaired. Mr. William, a Weymouth, 
but not so rich in experience, tried to dam the inevitable back- 
flow of the tide, but with incomplete success. The deposits 
in the Weymouth Bank dropped from six figures to five. 
Past-due paper began to accumulate, owing to injudicious 
loans. No one cared to address Mr. Robert on the subject of 
temperance. Many of his friends said that the cause of it 
had been the death of his wife some two years before. Others 
hesitated on account of Mr. Robert's quick temper, which was 
extremely apt to resent personal interference of such a na- 
ture. Miss Letty and the children noticed the change and 
grieved about it. Uncle Bushrod also worried, but he was 
one of those who would not have dared to remonstrate, al- 


The Guardian of the Accolade 81 

though he and Marse Robert had been raised almost as 
companions. But there was a heavier shock coming to Uncle 
Bushrod than that caused by the bank president’s toddies and 
juleps. 

Mr. Robert had a passion for fishing, which he usually in- 
dulged whenever the season and business permitted. One 
day, when reports had been coming in relating to the bass 
and perch, he announced his intention of making a two or 
three days’ visit to the lakes. He was going down, he said, 
to Reedy Lake with Judge Archinard, an old friend. 

Now, Uncle Bushrod was treasurer of the Sons and Daugh- 
ters of the Burning Bush. Every association he belonged to 
made him treasurer without hesitation. He stood AAl in 
coloured circles. He was understood among them to be Mr. 
Bushrod Weymouth, of the Weymouth Bank. 

The night following the day on which Mr. Robert men- 
tioned his intended fishing-trip the old man woke up and rose 
from his bed at twelve o’clock, declaring he must go down 
to the bank and fetch the pass-book of the Sons and Daugh- 
ters, which he had forgotten to bring home. The bookkeeper 
had balanced it for him that day, put the cancelled checks in 
it, and snapped two elastic bands around it. He put but one 
band around other pass-books. 

Aunt Malindy objected to the mission at so late an hour, 
denouncing it as foolish and unnecessary, but Uncle Bushrod 
was not to be deflected from duty. 

“I done told Sister Adaline Hoskins,” he said, “to come 
by here for dat book to-morrer mawnin’ at sebin o’clock, for 
to kyar’ it to de meetin’ of de bo’d of ’rangements, and dat 
book gwine to be here when she come.” 

So, Uncle Bushrod put on his old brown suit, got his thick 
hickory stick, and meandered through the almost deserted 
streets of Weymouthville. He entered the bank, unlocking 
the side door, and found the pass-book where he had left i& 


32 


Roads of Destiny 

in the little back room used for private consultations, where 
he always hung his coat. Looking about casually, he saw that 
everything was as he had left it, and was about to start for 
home when he was brought to a standstill by the sudden rattle 
of a key in the front door. Some one came quickly in, closed 
the door softly, and entered the counting-room through the 
door in the iron railing. 

That division of the bank’s space was connected with the 
back room by a narrow passageway, now in deep darkness. 

Uncle Bushrod, firmly gripping his hickory stick, tiptoed 
gently up this passage until he could see the midnight in- 
truder into the sacred precincts of the Weymouth Bank. One 
dim gas-jet burned there, but even in its nebulous light he 
perceived at once that the prowler was the bank’s president. 

Wondering, fearful, undecided what to do, the old coloured 
man stood motionless in the gloomy strip of hallway, and 
waited developments. 

The vault, with its big iron door, was opposite him. Inside 
that was the safe, holding the papers of value, the gold and 
currency of the bank. On the floor of the vault was, perhaps, 
eighteen thousand dollars in silver. 

The president took his key from his pocket, opened the 
vault and went inside, nearly closing the door behind him. 
Uncle Bushrod saw, through the narrow aperture, the flicker 
of a candle. In a minute or two — it seemed an hour to the 
watcher — Mr. Robert came out, bringing with him a large 
hand-satchel, handling it in a careful but hurried manner, as 
it fearful that he might be observed. With one hand he closed 
and locked the vault door. 

With a reluctant theory forming itself beneath his wool, 
Uncle Bushrod waited and watched, shaking in his concealing 
shadow. 

Mr. Robert set the satchel softly upon a desk, and turned 
his coat collar up about his neck and ears. He was dressed 


33 


The Guardian of the Accolade 

in a rough suit of gray, as if for travelling. He glanced with 
frowning intentness at the big office clock above the burning 
gas-jet, and then looked lingeringly about the bank — lin- 
geringly and fondly, Uncle Bushrod thought, as one who 
bids farewell to dear and familiar scenes. 

Now t he caught up his burden again and moved promptly 
and softly out of the bank by the way he had come locking 
the front door behind him. 

For a minute or longer Uncle Bushrod w T as as stone in his 
tracks. Had that midnight rifler of safes and vaults been 
any other on earth than the man he was, the old retainer 
would have rushed upon him and struck to save the Wey- 
mouth property. But now the watcher’s soul was tortured by 
the poignant dread of something worse than mere robbery. 
He was seized by an accusing terror that said the Weymouth 
name and the Weymouth honour were about to be lost. Marse 
Robert robbing the bank! What else could it mean? The 
hour of the night, the stealthy visit to the vault, the satchel 
brought forth full and with expedition and silence, the prow- 
ler’s rough dress, his solicitous reading of the clock, and 
noiseless departure — what else could it mean ? 

And then to the turmoil of Uncle Buslirod’s thoughts came 
the corroborating recollection of preceding events — Mr. 
Robert’s increasing intemperance and consequent many moods 
of royal high spirits and stern tempers; the casual talk he 
had heard in the bank of the decrease in business and dif- 
ficulty in collecting loans. What else could it all mean but 
that Mr. Robert Weymouth was an absconder — was about to 
fly with the bank’s remaining funds, leaving Mr. William, 
Miss Letty, little Nan, Guy, and Uncle Bushrod to bear the 
disgrace ? 

During one minute Uncle Bushrod considered these things, 
and then he awoke to sudden determination and action. 

“Lawd! Lawd!” he moaned aloud, as he hobbled hastily 


34 


Roads of Destiny 

toward the side door. “Sech a come-off after all dese here 
years of big doin’s and fine doin’s. Scan’lous sights upon 
de yearth when de Weymouth fambly done turn out robbers 
and ’bezzlers ! Time for Uncle Bushrod to clean out some- 
body’s chicken-coop and eben matters up. Oh, Lawd ! Marse 
Robert, you ain’t gwine do dat. ’N Miss Letty an’ dem 
chillum so proud and talkin’ ‘Weymouth, Weymouth/ all de 
time! I’m gwine to stop you ef I can. ; Spec you shoot 
Mr. Nigger’s head off ef he fool wid you, but I’m gwine stop 
you ef I can.” 

Uncle Bushrod, aided by his hickory stick, impeded by 
his rheumatism, hurried down the street toward the railroad 
station, where the two lines touching Wey mouth ville met. 
As he had expected and feared, he saw there Mr. Robert, 
standing in the shadow of the building, waiting for the train. 
He held the satchel in his hand. 

When Uncle Bushrod came within twenty yards of the 
bank president, standing like a huge, gray ghost by the 
station wall, sudden perturbation seized him. The rashness 
and audacity of the thing he had come to do struck him fully. 
He would have been happy could he have turned and fled 
from the possibilities of the famous Weymouth wrath. But 
again he saw, in his fancy, the white, reproachful face of 
Miss Letty, and the distressed looks of Nan and Guy, should 
he fail in his duty and they question him as to his stewardship. 

Braced by the thought, he approached in a straight line, 
clearing his throat and pounding with his stick so that he 
might be early recognized. Thus he might avoid the likely 
danger of too suddenly surprising the sometimes hasty Mr. 
Robert. 

“Is that you, Bushrod?” called the clamant, clear voice of 
the gray ghost. 

“Yes, suh, Marse Robert.” 

“What the devil are you doing out at this time of night?” 


35 


The Guardian of the Accolade 

For the first time in his life. Uncle Buslirod told Marse 
Robert a falsehood. He could not repress it. He would 
have to circumlocute a little. His nerve was not equal to a 
direct attack. 

‘‘I done been down, suh, to see o 1’ Aunt M’ria Patterson. 
She taken sick in de night, and I kyar’ed her a bottle of 
M’lindy’s medercine. Yes, suh.” 

“Humph!” said Robert. “You better get home out of 
the night air. It’s damp. You’ll hardly be worth killing 
to-morrow on account of your rheumatism. Think it’ll be a 
clear day, Bushrod?” 

“I ’low it will, suh. De sun sot red las’ night.” 

Mr. Robert lit a cigar in the shadow, and the smoke looked 
like his gray ghost expanding and escaping into the night 
air. Somehow, Uncle Bushrod could barely force his re- 
luctant tongue to the dreadful subject. He stood, awkward, 
shambling, with his feet upon the gravel and fumbling wfth 
his stick. But then, afar off — three miles away, at the 
Jimtown switch — he heard the faint whistle of the coming 
train, the one that was to transport the Weymouth name into 
the regions of dishonour and shame. All fear left him. He 
took off his hat and faced the chief of the clan he served, 
the great, royal, kind, lofty, terrible Weymouth — he bearded 
him there at the brink of the awful thing that was about to 
happen. 

“Marse Robert,” he began, his voice quavering a little with 
the stress of his feelings, “you ’member de day dey-all rode 
de tunnament at Oak Lawn? De day, suh, dat you win in 
de ridin’, and you crown Miss Lucy de queen?” 

“Tournament?” said Mr. Robert, taking his cigar from 
his mouth, “Yes, I remember very well the — but what the 
deuce are you talking about tournaments here at midnight 
for? Go ’long home, Bushrod. I believe you’re sleep-walk- 
ing.” 


36 


Roads of Destiny 

“Miss Lucy tetch you on de shoulder/* continued the old 
man, never heeding, “wid a s’ord, and say: ‘I mek you a 
knight, Suh Robert — rise up, pure and fearless and widout 
reproach.* Dat what Miss Lucy say. Dat*s been a long 
time ago, but me nor you ain’t forgot it. And den dar’s 
another time we ain’t forgot — de time when Miss Lucy lay 
on her las’ bed. She sent for Uncle Bushrod, and she say: 
‘Uncle Bushrod, when I die, I want you to take good care 
of Mr. Robert. Seem like* — so Miss Lucy say — ‘ he listen 
to you mo* dan to anybody else. He apt to be mighty 
fractious sometimes, and maybe he cuss you when you try to 
*suade him but he need somebody what understand him to 
be ’round wid him. He am like a little child sometimes’ — so 
Miss Lucy say, wid her eyes shinin’ in her po*, thin face — 
‘but he always been* — dem was her words — ‘my knight, 
pure and fearless and widout reproach.* ** 

Mr. Robert began to mask, as was his habit, a tendency 
to soft-heartedness with a spurious anger. 

“You — you old windbag!” he growled through a cloud 
of swirling cigar smoke. “I believe you are crazy. I told 
you to go home, Bushrod. Miss Lucy said that, did she? 
Well, we haven’t kept the scutcheon very clear. Two years 
ago last week, wasn’t it, Bushrod, when she died? Confound 
it! Are you going to stand there all night gabbing like a 
coffee-coloured gander?” 

The train whistled again. Now it was at the water tank, 
a mile away. 

“Marse Robert,” said Uncle Bushrod, laying his hand on 
the satchel that the banker held. “For Gawd’s sake, don* 
take dis wid you. I knows what’s in it. I knows where you 
got it in de bank. Don’ kyar’ it wid you. Dey’s big trouble 
in dat valise for Miss Lucy and Miss Lucy’s child’s chillun. 
Hit’s bound to destroy de name of Weymouth and bow down 
dem dat own it wid shame and triberlation Marse Robert, 


37 


The Guardian of the Accolade 

you can kill dis ole nigger ef you will, but don’t take away 
dis ’er’ valise. If I ever crosses over de Jordan, what I 
gwine to say to Miss Lucy when she ax me: ‘Uncle Bushrod, 
wharfo’ didn’ you take good care of Mr. Robert?’ ” 

Mr. Robert Weymouth threw away his cigar and shook 
free one arm with that peculiar gesture that always preceded 
his outbursts of irascibility. Uncle Bushrod bowed his head 
to the expected storm, but he did not flinch. If the house 
o\ Weymouth was to fall, he would fall with it. The banker 
spoke, and Uncle Bushrod blinked with surprise. The storm 
was there, but it was suppressed to the quietness of a summer 
breeze. 

“Bushrod,” said Mr. Robert, in a lower voice than he 
usually employed, “you have overstepped all bounds. You 
have presumed upon the leniency with which you have been 
treated to meddle unpardonably. So you know what is in 
Ihis satchel! Your long and faithful service is some excuse, 
but — go home, Bushrod — not another word !” 

But Bushrod grasped the satchel with a firmer hand. The 
headlight of the train was now lightening the shadows about 
the station. The roar was increasing, and folks were stirring 
about at the track side. 

“Marse Robert, gimme dis ’er’ valise. I got a right, suli, 
to talk to you dis ’er’ way. I slaved for you and ’tended 
to you from a child up. I went th’ough de war as yo’ body- 
servant tell we whipped de Yankees and sent ’em back to de 
No’th. I was at yo’ weddin’, and I was n’ fur away when 
yo’ Miss Letty was bawn. And Miss Letty’s chillun, dey 
watches to-day for Uncle Bushrod when he come home ever* 
evenin’. I been a Weymouth, all ’cept in colour and entitle- 
ments. Both of us is old, Marse Robert. ’Tain’t goin’ to be 
long tell we gwine to see Miss Lucy and has to give an 
account of our doin’s. De ole nigger man won’t be ’spected 
to say much mo’ dan he done all he could by de fambly dat 


38 


'Roads of Destiny 

owned him. But de Weymouths, dey must say dey been livin’ 
pure and fearless and widout reproach. Gimme dis valise, 
Marse Robert — I’m gwine to hab it. I’m gwine to take it 
back to the bank and lock it up in de vault. I’m gwine to do 
Miss Lucy’s biddin’. Turn ’er loose, Marse Robert.” 

The train was standing at the station. Some men were 
pushing trucks along the side. Two or three sleepy passengers 
got off and wandered away into the night. The conductor 
stepped to the gravel, swung his lantern and called: “Hello, 
Frank!” at some one invisible. The bell clanged, the brakes 
hissed, the conductor drawled : “All aboard !” 

Mr. Robert released his hold on the satchel. Uncle Bush- 
rod hugged it to his breast with both arms, as a lover clasps 
his first beloved. 

“Take it back with you, Bushrod,” said Mr. Robert, thrust- 
ing his hands into his pockets. “And let the subject drop 
— now mind! You’ve said quite enough. I’m going to take 
this train. Tell Mr. William I will be back on Saturday. 
Good night.” 

The banker climbed the steps of the moving train and 
disappeared in a coach. Uncle Bushrod stood motionless, still 
embracing the precious satchel. His eyes were closed and 
his lips were moving in thanks to the Master above for the 
salvation of the Weymouth honour. He knew Mr. Robert 
would return when he said he would. The WYvmouths never 
lied. Nor now, thank the Lord ! could it be said that they 
embezzled the money in banks. 

Then awake to the necessity for further guardianship of 
Weymouth trust funds, the old man started for the bank with 
the redeemed satchel. 

Three hours from Weymouth ville, in the gray dawn, Mr. 
Robert alighted from the train at a lonely flag-station. Dimly 
he could see the figure of a man waiting on the platform 


39 


The Guardian of the Accolade 

and tile shape of a spring-waggon, team and driver. Half a 
dozen lengthy bamboo fishing-poles projected from the wag- 
gon’s rear. 

‘‘You’re here. Bob,” said Judge Archinard, Mr. Robert’s 
old friend and schoolmate. “It’s going to be a royal day 
for fishing. I thought you said — why, didn’t you bring along 
the stuff?” 

The president of the Weymouth Bank took off his hat and 
rumpled his gray locks. 

“Well, Ben, to tell you the truth, there’s an infernally 
presumptuous old nigger belonging in my family that broke 
up the arrangement. He came down to the depot and vetoed 
the whole proceeding. He means all right, and — well, I 
reckon he is right. Somehow, he had found out what I had 
along — though I hid it in the bank vault and sneaked it out 
at midnight. I reckon he has noticed that I’ve been indulging 
a little more than a gentleman should, and he laid for me 
with some reaching arguments. 

“I’m going to quit drinking,” Mr. Robert concluded. “I’ve 
come to the conclusion that a man can’t keep it up and be 
quite what he’d like to be — ‘pure and fearless and without 
reproach’ — that’s the way old Buslirod quoted it.” 

“Well, I’ll have to admit,” said the judge, thoughtfully, 
as they climbed into the waggon, “that the old darkey’s argu- 
ment can’t conscientiously be overruled.” 

“Still,” said Mr. Robert, with a ghost of a sigh, “there 
was two quarts of the finest old silk-velvet Bourbon in that 
satchel you ever wet your lips with.” 


Ill 


THE DISCOUNTERS OF MONEY 

TlIE spectacle of the money-caliphs of the present day 
going about Bagdad-on-the-Subway trying to relieve the wants 
of the people is enough to make the great A1 Raschid turn 
Haroun in his grave. If not so, then the assertion should 
do so, the real caliph having been a wit and a scholar and 
therefore a hater of puns. 

How properly to alleviate the troubles of the poor is one 
of the greatest troubles of the rich. But one thing agreed 
upon by all professional philanthropists is that you must never 
hand over any cash to your subject. The poor are notori- 
ously temperamental; and when they get money they exhibit 
a strong tendency to spend it for stuffed olives and enlarged 
crayon portraits instead of giving it to the instalment man. 

And still, old Haroun had some advantages as an eleemosy- 
narian. He took around with him on his rambles his vizier, 
Giafar (a vizier is a composite of a chauffeur, a secretary of 
state, and a night-and-day bank), and old Uncle Mesrour, his 
executioner, who toted a snickersnee. With this entourage a 
taliphing tour could hardly fail to be successful. Have you 
noticed lately any newspaper articles headed, “What Shall 
We do With Our Ex-Presidents ?” Well, now, suppose that 
Mr. Carnegie should engage him and Joe Gans to go about 
assisting in the distribution of free libraries ? Do you suppose 
any town would have the hardihood to refuse one? That 
caliphalous combination would cause two libraries to grow 
where there had been only one set of E. P. Roe’s works be- 
fore. 




40 


41 


The Discounters of Money 

But, as I said, the money-caliphs are handicapped. They 
have the idea that earth has no sorrow that dough cannot 
heal; and they rely upon it solely. A1 Raschid administered 
justice, rewarded the deserving, and punished whomsoever he 
disliked on the spot. He was the originator of the short- 
story contest. Whenever he succoured any chance pick-up in 
the bazaars he always made the succouree tell the sad story 
of his life. If the narrative lacked construction, style, and 
esprit he commanded his vizier to dole him out a couple of 
thousand ten-dollar notes of the First National Bank of 
the Bosphorus, or else gave him a soft job as Keeper of the 
r a Seed for the Bulbuls in the Imperial Gardens. If the 
story was a cracker- j ack, he had Mesrour, the executioner, 
whack off his head. The report that Haroun AI Raschid is 
yet alive and is editing the magazine that your grandmother 
used to subscribe for lacks confirmation. 

And now follows the Story of the Millionaire, the Ineffica- 
cious Increment, and the Babes Drawn from the Wood. 

Young Howard Pilkins, the millionaire, got his money 
ornithologically. He was a shrewd judge of storks, and got 
in on the ground floor at the residence of his immediate 
ancestors, the Pilkins Brewing Company. For his mother was 
a partner in the business. Finally old man Pilkins died from 
a torpid liver, and then Mrs. Pilkins died from worry on 
account of torpid delivery-waggons — and there you have 
young Howard Pilkins with 4,000,000; and a good fellow at 
that. He was an agreeable, modestly arrogant young man, 
who implicitly believed that, money could buy anything that 
the world had to offer. And Bagdad-on-the-Subway for a 
long time did everything possible to encourage his belief. 

But the Rat-trap caught him at last; he heard the spring 
snap, and found his heart in a wire cage regarding a piece 
of cheese whose other name was Alice von der Ruysling. 

The Von der Ruy slings still live in that little square about 


42 


Roads of Destiny 

which so much has been said, and in which so little has been 
done. To-day you hear of Mr. Tilden's underground passage, 
and you hear Mr. Gould's elevated passage, and that about 
ends the noise in the world made by Gramercy Square. But 
once it was different. The Von der Ruyslings live there yet, 
and they received the first key ever made to Gramercy Park . 

You shall have no description of Alice v. d. R. Just call 
up in your mind the picture of your own Maggie or Vera 
or Beatrice, strighten her nose, soften her voice, tone her 
down and then tone her up, make her beautiful and unattain- 
able — and you have a faint dry-point etching of Alice. The 
family owned a crumbly brick house and a coachman named 
Joseph in a coat of many colours, and a horse so old that he 
claimed to belong to the order of the Perissodactyla, and had 
toes instead of hoofs. In the year 1898 the family had to 
buy a new set of harness for the Perissodactyl. Before 
using it they made Joseph smear it over with a mixture of 
ashes and soot. It was the Von der Ruysling family that 
bought the territory between the Bowery and East River and 
Rivington Street and the Statue of Liberty, in the year 
1649, from an Indian chief for a quart of passementerie and 
a pair of Turkey-red portieres designed for a Harlem flat. 
I have always admired that Indian's perspicacity and good 
taste. All this is merely to convince you that the Von der 
Ruyslings were exactly the kind of poor aristocrats that turn 
down their noses at people who have money. Oh, well, I 
don't mean that; I mean people who have just money. 

One evening Pilkins went down to the red brick house in 
Gramercy Square, and made what he thought was a proposal 
to Alice v. d. R. Alice, with her nose turned down, and 
thinking of his money, considered it a proposition, and refused 
it and him. Pilkins, summoning all his resources as any good 
general would have done, made an indiscreet reference to the 
advantages that his money would provide. That settled it. 


The Discounters of Money 


43 


The lady turned so cold that Walter Wellman himself would 
have waited until spring to make a dash for her in a dog-sled. 

But Pilkins was something of a sport himself. You can't 
fool all the millionaires every time the ball drops on the 
Western Union Building. 

“If, at any time/' he said to A. v. d. R., “you feel that 
you would like to reconsider your answer, send me a rose 
like that.” 

Pilkins audaciously touched a Jacque rose that she wore 
loosely in her hair. > 

“Very well,” said she. “And when I do, you will under- ^ 
stand by it that either you or I have learned something new 
about the purchasing power of money. You've been spoiled, 
my friend. No, I don’t think I could marry you. To-morrow 
I will send you back the presents you have given me.” 

“Presents !” said Pilkins in surprise. “I never gave you 
a present in my life. I would like to see a full-length portrait 
of the man that you would take a present from. Why, you 
never would let me send you flowers or candy or even art 
calendars.” 

“You've forgotten,” said Alice v. d. R., with a little smile. 
“It was a long time ago when our families were neighbours. 
You were seven, and I was trundling my doll on the sidewalk. 
You gave me a little gray, hairy kitten, with shoe-buttony 
eyes. Its head came off and it was full of candy. You paid 
five cents for it — you told me so. I haven’t the candy to 
return to you — I hadn't developed a conscience at three, so 
I ate it. But I have the kitten yet, and I will wrap it up 
neatly to-night and send it to you to-morrow.” 

Beneath the lightness of Alice v. d. R.'s talk the steadfast- 
ness of her rejection showed firm and plain. So there was 
nothing left for him but to leave the crumbly red brick house, 
and be off with his abhorred millions. 

On his way back, Pilkins walked through Madison Square . , 


44 


Roads of Destiny 

The hour hand of the clock hung about eight; the air was 
stingingly cool, but not at the freezing point. The dim 
little square seemed like a great, cold, unroofed room, with 
its four walls of houses, spangled with thousands of insufficient 
lights. Only a few loiterers were huddled here and there 
on the benches. 

But suddenly Pilkins came upon a youth brave and, 
as if conflicting with summer sultriness, coatless, his white 
shirt-sleeves conspicuous in the light from the globe of an 
electric. Close at his side was a girl, smiling, dreamy, happy. 
Around her shoulders was, palpably, the missing coat of the 
cold-defying youth. It appeared to be a modern panorama 
of the Babes in the Wood, revised and brought up to date, 
with the exception that the robins hadn’t turned up yet witk 
the protecting leaves. 

With delight the money-caliphs view a situation that they 
think is relievable while you wait. 

Pilkins sat on the bench, one seat removed from the youth. 
He glanced cautiously and saw (as men do see; and women — 
oh ! never can) that they were of the same order. 

Pilkins leaned over after a short time and spoke to the youth, 
who answered smilingly, and courteously. From general 
topics the conversation concentrated to the bed-rock of grim 
personalities. But Pilkins did it as delicately and heartily 
as any caliph could have done. And when it came to the 
point, the youth turned to him, soft-voiced and with his un- 
diminished smile. 

“I don’t want to seem unappreciative, old man,” he said, 
with a youth’s somewhat too-early spontaneity of address, 
“but, you see, I can’t accept anything from a stranger. I 
know you’re all right, and I’m tremendously obliged, but I 
couldn’t think of borrowing from anybody. You see, I’m 
Marcus Clayton — the Claytons of Roanoke County, Virginia, 
you know. The young lady is Miss Eva Bedford — I reckon 


45 


The Discounters of Money 

you’ve heard of the Bedfords. She’s seventeen and one of 
the Bedfords of Bedford County. We’ve eloped from home 
to get married, and we wanted to see New York. We got in 
this afternoon. Somebody got my pocketbook on the ferry- 
boat, and I had only three cents in change outside of it. I’ll 
get some work somewhere to-morrow, and we’ll get married.” 

“But, I say, old man,” said Pilkins, in confidential low 
tones, “you can’t keep the lady out here in the cold all night. 
Now, as for hotels — ” 

“I told you,” said the youth, with a broader smile, “that I 
didn’t have but three cents. Besides, if I had a thousand, 
we’d have to wait here until morning. You can understand 
that, of course. I’m much obliged, but I can’t take any of 
your money. Miss Bedford and I have lived an outdoor life, 
and we don’t mind a little cold. I’ll get work of some kind 
to-morrow. We’ve got a paper bag of cakes and chocolates, 
and we’ll get along all right.” 

“Listen,” said the millionaire, impressively. “My name 
is Pilkins, and I’m worth several million dollars. I happen 
to have in my pockets about $800 or $900 in cash. Don’t 
you think you are drawing it rather fine when you decline to 
accept as much of it as will make you and the young lady 
comfortable at least for the night?” 

“I can’t say, sir, that I do think so,” said Clayton of 
Roanoke County. “I’ve been raised to look at such things 
differently. But I’m mightily obliged to you, just the same.” 

“Then you force me to say good night,” said the million- 
aire. 

Twice that day had his money been scorned by simple 
ones to whom his dollars had appeared as but tin tobacco- 
tags. He was no worshipper of the actual minted coin or 
stamped paper, but he had always believed in its almost 
unlimited power to purchase. 

Pilkins walked away rapidly, and then turned abruptly 


46 


Hoads of Destiny 

and returned to the bench where the young couple sat. He 
took off his hat and began to speak. The girl looked at him 
with the same sprightly,, glowing interest that she had been 
giving to the lights and statuary and sky-reaching buildings 
that made the old square seem so far away from Bedford 
County. 

“Mr. — er — Roanoke,” said Pilkins, “I admire your — 
your indepen — your idiocy so much that I’m going to appeal 
to your chivalry. I believe that’s what you Southerners call 
it when you keep a lady sitting outdoors on a bench on a cold 
night just to keep your old, out-of-date pride going. Now, 
I’ve a friend — a lady — whom I have known all my life — 
who lives a few blocks from here — with her parents and sis- 
ters and aunts, and all that kind of endorsement, of course. 
I am sure this lady would be happy and pleased to put up — 
that is, to have Miss — er — Bedford give her the pleasure 
of having her as a guest for the night. Don’t you think, 
Mr. Roanoke, of — er — Virginia, that you could unbend your 
prejudices that far?” 

Clayton of Roanoke rose and held out his hand. 

“Old man,” he said, “Miss Bedford will be much pleased 
to accept the hospitality of the lady you refer to.” 

He formally introduced Mr. Pilkins to Miss Bedford. The 
girl looked at him sweetly and comfortably. “It’s a lovely 
evening, Mr. Pilkins — don’t you think so?” she said slowly. 

Pilkins conducted them to the crumbly red brick house of 
the Von der Ruyslings. His card brought Alice downstairs 
wondering. The runaways were sent into the drawing-room, 
while Pilkins told Alice all about it in the hall. 

“Of course, I will take her in,” said Alice. “Haven’t 
those Southern girls a thoroughbred air? Of course, she will 
stay here. You will look after Mr. Clayton, of course.” 

“Will I?” said Pilkins, delightedly. “Oh, yes. I’ll look 
after him! As a citizen of New York, and therefore a part 


47 


The Discounters of Money 

owner of its public parks, I’m going to extend to him the 
hospitality of Madison Square to-night. He’s going to sit 
there on a bench till morning. There’s no use arguing with 
him. Isn’t he wonderful? I’m glad you’ll look after the 
little lady, Alice. I tell you those Babes in the Wood made 
my — that is, er — made Wall Street and the Bank of Eng- 
land look like penny arcades.” 

Miss von der Ruysling whisked Miss Bedford of Bedford 
County up to restful regions upstairs. When she came down, 
she put an oblong small pasteboard box into Pilkins’ hands. 

“Your present,” she said, “that I am returning to you.” 

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Pilkins, with a sigh, “the 
woolly kitten.” 

He left Clayton on a park bench, and shook hands with 
him heartily. 

“After I get work,” said the youth, “I’ll look you up. 
Your address is on your card, isn’t it? Thanks. Well, good 
night. I’m awfully obliged to you for your kindness. No, 
thanks, I don’t smoke. Good night.” 

In his room, Pilkins opened the box and took out the 
staring, funny kitten, long ago ravaged of his candy and 
minus one shoe-button eye. Pilkins looked at it sorrowfully. 

“After all,” he said, “I don’t believe that just money 
alone will — ” 

And then he gave a shout and dug into the bottom of the 
box for something else that had been the kitten’s resting- 
place — a crushed but red, red, fragrant, glorious, promising 
Jacqueminot rose. 


IV 


THE ENCHANTED PROFILE 

There are few Caliphesses. Women are Scheherazades 
by birth, predilection, instinct, and arrangement of the vocal 
cords. The thousand and one stories are being told every 
day by hundreds of thousands of viziers’ daughters to their 
respective sultans. But the bowstring will get some of ’em 
yet if they don’t watch out. 

I heard a story, though, of one lady Caliph. It isn’t pre- 
cisely an Arabian Nights story, because it brings in Cinderella, 
who flourished her dishrag in another epoch and country. 
So, if you don’t mind the mixed dates (which seem to give 
it an Eastern flavour, after all), we’ll get along. 

In New York there is an old, old hotel. You have seen 
woodcuts of it in the magazines. It was built — let’s see — • 
at a time when there was nothing above Fourteenth Street 
except the old Indian trail to Boston and Hammerstcin’s office. 
Soon the old hostelry will be torn down. And, as the stout 
walls are riven apart and the bricks go roaring down the 
chutes, crowds of citizens will gather at the nearest corners 
and weep over the destruction of a dear old landmark. Civic 
pride is strong in New Bagdad; and the wettest weeper and 
the loudest howler against the inonoclasts will be the man 
(originally from Terre Haute) whose fond memories of the 
old hotel are limited to his having been kicked out from its 
free-lunch counter in 1873. 

At this hotel always stopped Mrs. Maggie Brown. Mrs. 
Brown was a bony woman of sixty, dressed in the rustiest 

43 


49 


The Enchanted Profile 

black, and carrying a handbag made, apparently, from the 
hide of the original animal that Adam decided to call an al- 
ligator. She always occupied a small parlour and bedroom at 
the top of the hotel at a rental of two dollars per day. And 
always, while she was there, each day came hurrying to see 
her many men, sharp-faced, anxious-looking, with only sec- 
onds to spare. For Maggie Brown was said to be the third 
richest woman in the world; and these solicitous gentlemen 
were only the city's wealthiest brokers and business men seek- 
ing trifling loans of half a dozen millions or so from the 
dingy old lady with the prehistoric handbag. 

The stenographer and typewriter of the Acropolis Hotel 
(there ! I've let the name of it out !) was Miss Ida Bates. 
She was a hold-over from the Greek classics. There wasn't 
a flaw in her looks. Some old-timer in paying his regards to 
a lady said: “To have loved her was a liberal education.” 
Well, even to have looked over the back hair and neat white 
shirtwaist of Miss Bates was equal to a full course in any 
correspondence school in the country. She sometimes did a 
little typewriting for me and, as she refused to take the 
money in advance, she came to look upon me as something of 
a friend and protege. She had unfailing kindliness and good 
nature; and not even a white-lead drummer or a fur importer 
had ever dared to cross the dead line of good behaviour in 
her presence. The entire force of the Acropolis, from the 
owner, who lived in Vienna, down to the head porter, who 
had been bedridden for sixteen years, would have sprung to 
her defence in a moment. 

One day I walked past Miss Bates’s little sanctum Rem- 
ingtorium, and saw in her place a black-haired unit — un- 
mistakably a person — pounding with each of her forefingers 
upon the keys. Musing on the mutability of temporal af- 
fairs, I passed on. The next day I went on a two weeks' 
vacation. Returning, I strolled through the lobby of the 


50 


Roads of Destiny 

Acropolis, and saw, with a little warm glow of auld lang syne, 
Miss Bates, as Grecian and kind and flawless as ever, just 
putting the cover on her machine. The hour for closing had 
come; but she asked me in to sit for a few minutes in the 
dictation chair. Miss Bates explained her absence from and 
return to the Acropolis Hotel in words identical with or sim- 
ilar to these following: 

“Well, Man, how are the stories coming ?” 

“Pretty regularly,” said I. “About equal to their go- 
ing.” 

“Fm sorry,” said she. “Good typewriting is the main 
thing in a story. You’ve missed me. haven’t you?” 

“No one,” said I, “whom I have ever known knows as 
well as you do how to space properly belt buckles, semi-colons,, 
hotel guests, and hairpins. But you’ve been away, too. 1 
saw a package of peppermint-pepsin in your place the other 
day.” 

“I was going to tell you about it,” said Miss Bates, “if you 
hadn’t interrupted me. 

“Of course, you know about Maggie Brown, who stops 
here. Well, she’s worth $40,000,000. She lives in Jersey in 
a ten-dollar flat. She’s always got more cash on hand than 
half a dozen business candidates for vice-president. I don’t 
know whether she carries it in her stocking or not, but I 
know she’s mighty popular down in the part of the town where 
they worship the golden calf. 

“Well, about two weeks ago, Mrs. Brown stops at the door 
and rubbers at me for ten minutes. I’m sitting with my side 
to her, striking off some manifold copies of a copper-mine 
proposition for a nice old man from Tonopah. But I always 
see everything all around me. When I’m hard at work I can 
see things through my side-combs; and I can leave one but- 
ton unbuttoned in the back of my shirtwaist and see who’s be- 


The Enchanted Profile 51 

hind me. I didn’t look around, because I make from eighteen 
to twenty dollars a week, and I didn’t have to. 

“That evening at knocking-off time she sends for me to 
come up to her apartment. I expected to have to typewrite 
about two thousand words of notes-of-hand, liens, and con- 
tracts, with a ten-cent tip in sight; but I went. Well, Man, 
I was certainly surprised. Old Maggie Brown had turned 
human. 

“ ‘Child/ says she, ‘you’re the most beautiful creature I 
ever saw in my life. I want you to quit your work and come 
and live with me. I’ve no kith or kin/ says she, ‘except a 
husband and a son or two, and I hold no communication with 
any of ’em. They’re extravagant burdens on a hard-working 
woman. I want you to be a daughter to me. They say I’m 
stingy and mean, and the papers print lies about my doing 
my own cooking and washing. It’s a lie/ she goes on. ‘I 
put my washing out, except the handkerchiefs and stockings 
and petticoats and collars, and light stuff like that. I’ve got 
forty million dollars in cash and stocks and bonds that are as 
negotiable as Standard Oil, preferred, at a church fair. I’m 
a lonely old woman and I need companionship. You’re the 
most beautiful human being I ever saw/ says she. ‘Will 
you come and live with me? I’ll show ’em whether I can 
spend money or not/ she says. 

“Well, Man, what would you have done? Of course, I 
fell to it. And, to tell you the truth, I began to like old 
Maggie. It wasn’t all on account of the forty millions and 
what she could do for me. I was kind of lonesome in the 
world, too. Everybody’s got to have somebody they can 
explain to about the pain in their left shoulder and how fast 
patent-leather shoes wear out when they begin to crack. And 
you can’t talk about such things to men you meet in hotels — 
they’re looking for just such openings. 


52 


Roads of Destiny 

"So I gave up my job in the hotel and went with Mra. 
Brown. I certainly seemed to have a mash on her. She’d 
look at me for half an hour at a time when I was sitting* read- 
ing* or looking at the magazines. 

"One time I says to her: ‘Do I remind you of some de- 
ceased relative or friend of your childhood, Mrs. Brown? 
I’ve noticed you give me a pretty good optical inspection from 
time to time.’ 

" ‘You have a face/ she says, ‘exactly like a dear friend 
of mine — the best friend I ever had. But I like you for 
yourself, child, too/ she says. 

"And say, Man, what do you suppose she did? Loosened 
up like a Marcel wave in the surf at Coney. She took me 
to a swell dressmaker and gave her a la carte to fit me out 

— money no object. They were rush orders, and madame 
locked the front door and put the whole force to work. 

"Then we moved to — where do you think ? — no ; guess 
again — that’s right — the Hotel Bonton. We had a six-room 
apartment; and it cost $100 a day. I saw the bill. I began 
to love that old lady. 

"And then, Man, when my dresses began to come in — 
oh, I won’t tell you about ’em ! you couldn’t understand. And 
I began to call her Aunt Maggie. You’ve read about Cinder- 
ella, of course. Well, what Cinderella said when the prince 
fitted that 3^ A on her foot was a hard-luck story compared 
to the things I told myself. 

"Then Aunt Maggie says she is going to give me a com- 
ing-out banquet in the Bonton that’ll make moving Vans of 
all the old Dutch families on Fifth Avenue. 

" ‘I’ve been out before, Aunt Maggie,” says I. ‘But I’ll 
come out again. But you know/ says I, ‘that this is one of 
the swellest hotels in the city. And you know — pardon me 

— that it’s hard to get a bunch of notables together unless 
you’ve trained for it.’ 


53 


The Enchanted Profile 

" 'Don’t fret about that, child/ says Aunt Maggie. *1 
don’t send out invitations — I issue orders. I’ll have fifty 
guests here that couldn’t be brought together again at any 
reception unless it were given by King Edward or William 
Travers Jerome. They are men, of course, and all of ’em 
either owe me money or intend to. Some of their wives won’t 
come, but a good many will!’ 

"Well, I wish you could have been at that banquet. The 
dinner service was all gold and cut glass. There were about 
forty men and eight ladies present besides Aunt Maggie and 
I. You’d never have known the third richest woman in the 
world. She had on a new black silk dress with so much pas- 
sementerie on it that it sounded exactly like a hailstorm I 
heard once when I was staying all night with a girl that lived 
in a top-floor studio. 

"And my dress ! — say, Man, I can’t waste the words on 
you. It was all hand-made lace — where there was any of 
it at all — and it cost $300. I saw the bill. The men were 
all bald-headed or white-side-whiskered, and they kept up a 
running fire of light repartee about 3-per cents, and Bryan and 
the cotton crop. , 

"On the left of me was something that talked like a banker, 
and on my right was a young fellow who said he was a news- 
paper artist. He was the only — well, I was going to tell 
you. 

"After the dinner was over Mrs. Brown and I went up 
to the apartment. We had to squeeze our way through a mob 
of reporters all the way through the halls. That’s one of the 
things money does for you. Say, do you happen to know a 
newspaper artist named Lathrop — a tall man with nice eyes 
and an easy way of talking? No, I don’t remember what 
paper he works on. Well, all right. 

"When we got upstairs Mrs. Brown telephones for the 
till right away. It came, and it was $600. I saw the bilk 


54 Roads of Destiny 

Aunt Maggie fainted. I got her on a lounge and opened the 
bead-work. 

“ ‘Child/ says she, when she got back to the world, ‘what 
was it? A raise of rent or an income-tax ?’ 

“ ‘Just a little dinner/ says I. ‘Nothing to worry about 

— hardly a drop in the bucket-shop. Sit up and take notice 

— a dispossess notice, if there’s no other kind/ 

“But, say, Man, do you know what Aunt Maggie did? 
She got cold feet! She hustled me out of that Hotel Bonton 
at nine the next morning. We went to a rooming-house on 
the lower West Side. She rented one room that had water 
on the floor below and light on the floor above. After we got 
moved all you could see in the room was about $1,500 worth 
of new swell dresses and a one-burner gas-stove. 

“Aunt Maggie had had a sudden attack of the hedges. 
I guess everybody has got to go on a spree once in their 
life. A man spends his on highballs, and a woman gets 
woozy on clothes. But with forty million dollars — say! I’d 
like to have a picture of — but, speaking of pictures, did you 
ever run across a newspaper artist named Lathrop — a tall — 
oh, I asked you that before, didn’t I? Pie was mighty nice 
to me at the dinner. His voice just suited me. I guess he 
must have thought I was to inherit some of Aunt Maggie’s 
money. 

“Well, Mr. Man, three days of that light-housekeeping was 
plenty for me. Aunt Maggie was affectionate as ever. She’d 
hardly let me get out of her sight. But let me tell you. 
She was a hedger from Hedgersville, Hedger County. Sev- 
enty-five cents a day was the limit she set. We cooked our 
own meals in the room. There I was, with a thousand dollars* 
worth of the latest things in clothes, doing stunts over a one- 
burner gas-tove. 

“As I say, on the third day I flew the coop. I couldn't 
stand for throwing together a fifteen-cent kidney stew while 


55 


The Enchanted Profile 

wearing, at the same time, a $150 house-dress, with Valcn- 
ciennes lace insertion. So I goes into the closet and puts on 
the cheapest dress Mrs. Brown had bought for me — it’s the 
one I’ve got on now — not so bad for $75, is it? I’d left all 
my own clothes in my sister’s flat in Brooklyn. 

" 'Mrs. Brown, formerly "Aunt Maggie/’ ’ says I to her, 
'I am going to extend my feet alternately, one after the 
other, in such a manner and direction that this tenement will 
recede from me in the quickest possible time. I am no wor- 
shipper of money/ says I, ‘but there are some things I can’t 
stand. I can stand the fabulous monster that I’ve read about 
that blows hot birds and cold bottles with the same breath. 
But I can’t stand a quitter/ says I. ‘They say jmu’ve got 
forty million dollars — well, you’ll never have any less. And 
I was beginning to like you, too/ says I. 

"Well, the late Aunt Maggie kicks till the tears flow. She 
offers to move into a swell room with a two-burner stove and 
running water. 

" ‘I’ve spent an awful lot of money, child/ says she. 
‘We’ll have to economize for a while. You’re the most beau- 
tiful creature I ever laid eyes on/ she says, ‘and I don’t 
want you to leave me.’ 

"Well, you see me, don’t you? I walked straight to the 
Acropolis and asked for my job back, and I got it. How 
did you say your writings were getting along? I know you’ve 
lost out some by not having me to typewrite ’em. Do you ever 
have ’em illustrated? And, by the way, did you ever happen 
to know a newspaper artist — oh, shut up ! I know I asked 
you before. I wonder what paper he works on? It’s funny, 
but I couldn’t help thinking that he wasn’t thinking about the 
money he might have been thinking I was thinking I’d get 
from old Maggie Brown. If I only knew some of the news- 
paper editors I’d — ” 

The sound of an easy footstep came from the doorway. Ida 


56 


Roads of Destiny 

Bates saw who it was with her back-hair comb. I saw her 
turn pink, perfect statue that she was — a miracle that I 
share with Pygmalion only. 

“Am I excusable?” she said to me — adorable petitioner 
that she became. “It's — it’s Mr. Lathrop. I wonder if it 
really wasn't the money — I wonder, if after all, he — ” 

Of course, I was invited to the wedding. After the cere- 
mony I dragged Lathrop aside. 

“You an artist,” said I, “and haven't figured out why Mag- 
gie Brown conceived such a strong liking for Miss Bates — • 
that was ? Let me show you.” 

The bride wore a simple white dress as beautifully draped 
as the costumes of the ancient Greeks. I took some leaves 
from one of the decorative wreaths in the little parlour, and 
made a chaplet of them, and placed them on nee Bates shining 
chestnut hair, and made her turn her profile to her husband. 

“By jingo!” said he. “Isn't Ida’s a dead ringer for the 
lady'a head on the silver dollar?” 


V 


“NEXT TO READING MATTER” 

He COMPELLED my interest as he stepped from the 
ferry at Desbrosses Street. He had the air of being familiar 
with hemispheres and worlds, and of entering New York as 
the lord of a demesne who revisited it in after years of ab- 
sence. But I thought that, with all his air, he had never 
before set foot on the slippery cobblestones of the City of 
Too Many Caliphs. 

He wore loose clothes of a strange bluish drab colour, and 
a conservative, round Panama hat without the cock-a-loop 
indentations and cants with which Northern fanciers disfigure 
the tropic head-gear. Moreover, he was the homeliest man I 
have ever seen. His ugliness was less repellent than startling 
— arising from a sort of Lincolnian ruggedness and irregu- 
larity of feature that spellbound you with wonder and dis- 
may. So may have looked afrites or the shapes metamor- 
phosed from the vapour of the fisherman’s vase. As he after- 
ward told me, his name was Judson Tate; and he may as well 
be called so at once. He wore his green silk tie through a 
topaz ring; and he carried a cane made of the vertebrae of a 
shark. 

Judson Tate accosted me with some large and casual in- 
quiries about the city’s streets and hotels, in the manner of one 
who had but for the moment forgotten the trifling details. I 
could think of no reason for dispraising my own quiet hotel 
in the downtown district; so the mid-morning of the night 
found us already victualed and drinked (at my expense), and 

57 


58 Roads of Destiny 

ready to be chaired and tobaccoed in a quiet corner of the 
lobby. 

There was something on Judson Tate’s mind, and, such 
as it was, he tried to convey it to me. Already he had ac- 
cepted me as his friend; and when I looked at his great, snuff- 
brown first-mate’s hand, with which he brought emphasis to 
his periods, within six inches of my nose, I wondered if, by 
any chance, he was as sudden in conceiving enmity against 
strangers. 

When this man began to talk I perceived in him a certain 
power. His voice was a persuasive instrument, upon which 
he played with a somewhat specious but effective art. He 
did not try to make you forget his ugliness; he flaunted it in 
your face and made it part of the charm of his speech. Shut- 
ting your eyes, you would have trailed after this rat-catcher’s 
pipes at least to the walls of Hamelin. Beyond that you 
would have had to be more childish to follow. But let him 
play his own tune to the words set down, so that if all is too 
dull, the art of music may bear the blame. 

“Women,” said Judson Tate, “are mysterious creatures.” 

My spirits sank. I was not there to listen to such a world- 
t*Sd hypothesis — to such a time-worn, long-ago-refuted, bald, 
feeble, illogical, vicious, patent sophistry — to an ancient, 
baseless, wearisome, ragged, unfounded, insidious falsehood 
originated by women themselves, and by them insinuated, 
foisted, thrust, spread, and ingeniously promulgated into the 
ears of mankind by underhanded, secret and deceptive meth- 
ods, for the purpose of argumenting, furthering, and reinforc- 
ing their own charms and designs. 

“Oh, I don’t know!” said I, vernacularly. 

“Have you ever heard of Oratama?” he asked. 

“Possibly,” I answered. “I seem to recall a toe dancer 
--or a suburban addition — or was it a perfume ? — of some 
such name.” 


“Next to Reading Matter’ 


59 


“It is a town/’ said Judson Tate, “on the coast of a 
foreign country of which you know nothing and could under- 
stand less. It is a country governed by a dictator and con- 
trolled by revolutions and insubordination. It was there that 
a great life-drama was played, with Judson Tate, the homelv'est 
man in America* and Fergus McMahan, the handsomest ad- 
venturer in history or fiction, and Sehorita Anabela Zamora, 
the beautiful daughter of the alcalde of Oratama, as chief ac- 
tors. And, another thing — nowhere else on the globe except 
in the department of Trienta y tres in Uruguay does the 
chucliula plant grow. The products of the country I speak 
of are valuable woods, dyestuffs, gold, rubber, ivory and 
cocoa.” 

“I was not aware,” said I, “that South America produced 
any ivory.” 

“There you are twice mistaken,” said Judson Tate, dis- 
tributing the words over at least an octave of his wonderful 
voice. “I did not say that the country I spoke of was in 
South America — I must be careful, my dear man; I have 
been in politics there, you know. But, even so — I have 
played chess against its president with a set carved from the 
nasal bones of the tapir — one of our native specimens of the 
order of perissodactyle ungulates inhabiting the Cordilleras 
— which was as pretty ivory as you would care to see. 

“But it was of romance and adventure and the ways of 
women that I was going to tell you, and not of zoological 
animals. 

“For fifteen years I was the ruling power behind old 
Sancho Benavides, the Royal High Thumbscrew of the re- 
public. You've seen his picture in the papers — a mushy 
black man with whiskers like the notes on a Swiss music-box 
cylinder, and a scroll in his right hand like the ones they 
write births on in the family Bible. Well, that chocolate 
potentate used to be the biggest item of interest anywhere 


60 


Roads of Destiny 

between the colour line and the parallels of latitude. It was 
three throws, horses, whether he was to wind up in the Hall 
of Fame or the Bureau of Combustibles. He’d have been 
sure called the Roosevelt of the Southern Continent if it 
hadn’t been that Grover Cleveland was President at the time. 
He’d hold office a couple of terms, then he’d sit out for a 
hand — always after appointing his own successor for the 
interims. 

“But it was not Benavides, the Liberator, who was making 
all this fame for himself. Not him. It was Judson Tate. 
Benavides was only the chip over the bug. I gave him the 
tip when to declare war and increase import duties and wear 
his state trousers. But that wasn’t what I wanted to tell 
you. How did I get to be It? I’ll tell you. Because I’m 
the most gifted talker that ever made vocal sounds since 
Adam first opened his eyes, pushed aside the smelling-salts, 
and asked: ‘Where am I?’ 

“As you observe, I am about the ugliest man you ever 
saw outside the gallery of photographs of the New England 
early Christian Scientists. So, at an early age, I perceived 
that what I lacked in looks I must make up in eloquence. 
That I’ve done. I get what I go after. As the back-stop 
and still small voice of old Benavides I made all the great 
historical powers-behind-the-throne, such as Talleyrand, Mrs. 
de Pompadour, and Loeb, look as small as the minority re* 
port of a Duma. I could talk nations into or out of debt, 
harangue armies to sleep on the battlefield, reduce insurrec- 
tions, inflammations, taxes, appropriations or surpluses with a 
few words, and call up the dogs of war or the dove of peace 
with the same bird-like whistle. Beauty and epaulettes and 
curly moustaches and Grecian profiles in other men were never 
in my way. When people first look at me they shudder. 
Unless they are in the last stages of angina pectoris they are 
mine in ten minutes after I begin to talk. Women and men — • 


“Next to Reading Matter ” 61 

I win ’em as they come. Now, you wouldn’t think women 
would fancy a man with a face like mine, would you ?” 

* “Oh, yes, Mr. Tate,” said I. “History is bright and 
fiction dull with homely men who have charmed women. 
There seems — ” 

“Pardon me,” interrupted Judson Tate, “but you don’t 
quite understand. You have yet to hear my story. 

“Fergus McMahan was a friend of mine in the capital. 
For a handsome man I’ll admit he was the duty-free merchan- 
dise. He had blond curls and laughing blue eyes and was fea- 
tured regular. They said he was a ringer for the statue they 
call Herr Mees, the god of speech and eloquence resting in 
some museum at Rome. Some German anarchist, I suppose. 
They are always resting and talking. 

“But Fergus was no talker. He was brought up with the 
idea that to be beautiful was to make good. His conversation 
was about as edifying as listening to a leak dropping in a 
tin dish-pan at the head of the bed when you want to go to 
sleep. But he and me got to be friends — maybe because we 
as so opposite, don’t you think? Looking at the Hallowe’en 
mask that I call my face when I’m shaving seemed to giv* 
Fergus pleasure; and I’m sure that whenever I heard the 
feeble output of throat noises that he called conversation I 
felt contented to be a gargoyle with a silver tongue. 

“One time I found it necessary to go down to this coast 
town of Oratama to straighten out a lot of political unrest and 
chop off a few heads in the customs and military departments. 
Fergus, who owned the ice and sulphur-match concessions of 
the republic, says he’ll keep me company. 

“So, in a jangle of mule-train bells, we gallops into Ora- 
tama, and the town belonged to us as much as Long Island 
Sound doesn’t belong to Japan when T. R. is at Oyster Bay. 
I say us; but I mean me. Everybody for four nations, two 
oceans, one bay and isthmus, and five achipelagoes around 


62 


Roads of Destiny 

had heard of Judson Tate. Gentleman adventurer, they called 
me. I had been written up in five columns of the yellow 
journals, 40,000 words (with marginal decorations) in a 
monthly magazine, and a stickful on the twelfth page of the 
New York Times. If the beauty of Fergus McMahan gained 
any part of our reception in Oratama, I’ll eat the price-tag 
in my Panama. It was me that they hung out paper flowers 
and palm branches for. I am not a jealous man; I am stating 
facts. The people were Nebuchadnezzars; they bit the grass 
before me; there was no dust in the town for them to bite. 
They bowed down to Judson Tate. They knew that I was 
the power behind Sancho Benavides. A word from me was 
more to them than a whole deckle-edged library from East 
Aurora in sectional bookcases was from anybody else. And 
yet there are people who spend hours fixing their faces — 
rubbing in cold cream and massaging the muscles (always to- 
ward the eyes) and taking in the slack with tincture of benzoin 
and electrolyzing moles — to what end ? Looking handsome. 
Oh, what a mistake ! It’s the larynx that the beauty doctors 
ought to work on. It’s words more than warts, talk more than 
talcum, palaver more than powder, blarney more than bloom 
that counts — the phonograph instead of the photograph. But 
I was going to tell you. 

“The local Astors put me and Fergus up at the Centipede 
Club, a frame building built on posts sunk in the surf. The 
tide’s only nine inches. The Little Big High Low Jack-in- 
the-game of the town came around and kowtowed. Oh, it 
wasn’t to Herr Mees. They had heard about Judson Tate. 

“One afternoon me and Fergus McMahan was sitting on 
the seaward gallery of the Centipede, drinking iced rum and 
talking. 

“ ‘Judson/ says Fergus, ‘there’s an angel in Oratama/ 

“ ‘So long/ says I, ‘as it ain’t Gabriel, why talk as if you 
had heard a trump blow?.’ 


“Next to Reading Matter” 63 

“ ‘It’s the Senorita Anabela Zamora/ says Fergus. ‘She's 
— she’s — she's as lovely as — as hell !' 

“‘Bravo!' says I, laughing heartily. ‘You have a true 
lover's eloquence to paint the beauties of your inamorata. You 
remind me/ says I, ‘of Faust's wooing of Marguerite — that 
is, if he wooed her after he went down the trap-door of the 
stage/ 

“ ‘Judson/ says Fergus, ‘you know you are as beautiless as 
a rhinoceros. You can’t have any interest in women. I'm 
awfully gone on Miss Anabela. And that’s why I'm telling 
you." 

“ ‘Oh, seguramente / says I. ‘I know I have a front ele- 
vation like an Aztec god that guards a buried treasure that 
never did exist in Jefferson County, Yucatan. But there are 
compensations. For instance, I am It in this country as far 
as the eye can reach, and then a few perches and poles. And 
again/ says I, ‘when I engage people in a set-to of oral, vocal, 
and laryngeal utterances, I do not usually confine my side of 
the argument to what may be likened to a cheap phonographic 
Reproduction oS the ravings of a jellyfish/ 

“ ‘Oh, I know/ says Fergus, amiable, ‘that I'm not handy 
at small talk. Or large, either. That’s why I’m telling you. 
I want you to help me.' 

“ ‘How can I do it?' I asked. 

“ ‘I have subsidized/ says Fergus, ‘the services of Senorita 
Anabela's duenna, whose name is Francesca. You have a 
reputation in this country, Judson/ says Fergus, ‘of being a 
great man and a hero.’ 

“ ‘I have/ says I. ‘And 1 deserve it/ 

“ ‘And 1/ says Fergus, ‘am the best-looking man between 
the arctic circle and antarctic ice pack.’ 

“ ‘With limitations/ says I, ‘as t c physiognomy and geog- 
raphy, I freely concede you to be/ 

“ ‘Between the two of us/ says Fergus, ‘we ought to land 


64 


Roads of Destiny 

the Sehorita Anabela Zamora. The lady, as you know, is of 
an old Spanish family, and further than looking at her driving 
in the family carruaje of afternoons around the plaza, or 
catching a glimpse of her through a barred window of even- 
ings, she is as unapproachable as a star/ 

“ ‘Land her for which one of us?’ says I. 

“ ‘For me, of course/ says Fergus. ‘You’ve never seen 
her. Now, I’ve had Francesca point me out to her as being 
you on several occasions. When she sees me on the plaza, she 
thinks she’s looking at Don Judson Tate, the greatest hero, 
statesman, and romantic figure in the country. With your 
reputation and my looks combined in one man, how can she re- 
sist him? She’s heard all about your thrilling history, of 
course. And she’s seen me. Can any woman want more?’* 
asks Fergus McMahan. 

“ ‘Can she do with less ?’ I ask. ‘How can we separate 
our mutual attractions, and how shall we apportion the pro- 
ceeds ?’ 

“Then Fergus tells me his scheme. 

“The house of the alcalde, Don Luis Zamora, he says, has 
a patio , of course — a kind of inner courtyard opening from 
the street. In an angle of it is his daughter’s window — as 
dark a place as you could find. And what do you think he 
wants me to do? Why, knowing my freedom, charm, and 
skilfulness of tongue, he proposes that I go into the patio at 
midnight, when the hobgoblin face of me cannot be seen, and 
make love to her for him — for the pretty man that she has 
seen on the plaza, thinking him to be Don Judson Tate. 

“Why shouldn’t I do it for him — for my friend, Fergus 
McMahan? For him to ask me was a compliment — an ac- 
knowledgment of his own shortcomings. 

“ ‘You little, lily white, fine-haired, highly polished piece of 
dumb sculpture,’ says I, ‘I’ll help you. Make your arrange- 
ments and get me in the dark outside her window and my 


“ Next to Reading Matter” 65 

stream of conversation opened up with the moonlight tremolo 
stop turned on, and she’s yours.’ 

“ ‘Keep your face hid, Jud,’ says Fergus. ‘For heaven’s 
sake, keep your face hid. I’m a friend of yours in all kinds 
of sentiment, but this is a business deal. If I could talk I 
wouldn’t ask you. But seeing me and listening to you I don’t 
see why she can’t be landed.’ 

“ ‘By you?’ says I. 

“ ‘By me/ says Fergus. 

“Well, Fergus and the duenna, Francesca, attended to the 
details. And one night they fetched me a long black cloak 
with a high collar, and led me to the house at midnight. I 
stood by the window in the patio until I heard a voice as soft 
and sweet as an angel’s whisper on the other side of the bars. 
I could see only a faint, white clad shape inside; and, true 
to Fergus, I pulled the collar of my cloak high up, for it was 
July in the wet season, and the nights were chilly. And, 
smothering a laugh as I thought of the tongue-tied Fergus, I 
began to talk. 

“Well, sir, I talked an hour at the Senorita Anabela. I 
say ‘at’ because it was not ‘with.’ Now and then she would 
say: ‘Oh, Senor,’ or ‘Now, ain’t you foolin’?’ or ‘I know 
you don’t mean that,’ and such things as women will when 
they are being rightly courted. Both of us knew English and 
Spanish; so in two languages I tried to win the heart of the 
lady for my friend Fergus. But for the bars to the window I 
could have done it in one. At the end of the hour she dis- 
missed me and gave me a big, red rose. I handed it over to 
Fergus when I got home. 

“For three weeks every third or fourth night I impersonated 
my friend in the patio at the window of Senorita Anabela. 
At last she admitted that her heart was mine, and spoke of 
having seen me every afternoon when she drove in the plaza. 
It was Fergus she had seen, of course. But it was my talk 


66 


Roads of Destiny 

that won her. Suppose Fergus had gone there and tried to 
make a hit in the dark with his beauty all invisible, and not 
a word to say for himself ! 

“On the last night she promised to be mine — that is, Fer- 
gus’s. And she put her hand between the bars for me to kiss. 
I bestowed the kiss and took the news to Fergus. 

“ ‘You might have left that for me to do/ says he. 

“‘That’ll be your job hereafter/ says I. ‘Keep on do- 
ing that and don’t try to talk. Maybe after she thinks she’s 
in love she won’t notice the difference between real conversa- 
tion and the inarticulate sort of droning that you give forth.’ 

“Now, I had never seen Senorita Anabela. So, the next 
day Fergus asks me to walk with him through the plaza and 
view the daily promenade and exhibition of Oratama society, 
a sight that had no interest for me. But I went; and children 
and dogs took to the banana groves and mangrove swamps as 
soon as they had a look at my face. 

“ ‘Here she comes/ said Fergus, twirling his moustache — 
‘the one in white, in the open carriage with the black 
horse.’ 

“I looked and felt the ground rock under my feet. For 
Senorita Anabela Zamora was the most beautiful woman in 
the world, and the only one from that moment on, so far as 
Judson Tate was concerned. I saw at a glance that I must 
be hers and she mine forever. I thought of my face and 
nearly fainted; and then I thought of my other talents and 
stood upright again. And I had been wooing her for three, 
weeks for another man ! 

“As Senorita Anabela’s carriage rolled slowly past, sha 
gave Fergus a long, soft glance from the corners of her night- 
black eyes, a glance that would have sent Judson Tate up 
into heaven in a rubber-tired chariot. But she never looked 
at me. And that handsome man only ruffles his curls and 
smirks and prances like a lady-killer at my side r 


“ Next to Reading Matter" 67 

“‘What do you think of her, Judson?’ asks Fergus, with 
an air. 

“ ‘This much/ says I. ‘She is to be Mrs. Judson Tate. I 
am no man to play tricks on a friend. So take your warning/ 

“I thought Fergus would die laughing. 

“ ‘Well, well, well/ said he, ‘you old doughface ! Struck 
too, are you? That’s great! But you’re too late. Francesca 
tells me that Anabela talks of nothing but me, day and night. 
Of course, I’m awfully obliged to you for making that chin- 
music to her of evenings. But, do you know, I’ve an idea that 
I could have done it as well myself/ 

“ ‘Mrs. Judson Tate/ says I. ‘Don’t forget the name. 
You’ve had the use of my tongue to go with your good looks, 
my boy. You can’t lend me your looks; but hereafter my 
tongue is my own. Keep your mind on the name that’s to be 
on the visiting cards two inches by three and a half — “Mrs, 
Judson Tate.” That’s all/ 

“ ‘All right/ says Fergus, laughing again. ‘I’ve talked 
with her father, the alcalde, and he’s willing. He’s to give 
a baile to-morrow evening in his new warehouse. If you were 
a dancing man, Jud, I’d expect you around to meet the future 
Mrs. McMahan/ 

“But on the next evening, when the music was playing 
loudest at the Alcalde Zamora’s baile, into the room steps Jud- 
son Tate in new white linen clothes as if he were the biggest 
man in the whole nation, which he was. 

“Some of the musicians jumped off the key when they saw 
my face, and one or two of the timidest senoritas let out a 
screech or two. But up prances the alcalde and almost wipes 
the dust off my shoes with his forehead. No mere good looks 
could have won me that sensational entrance. 

“ ‘I hear much, Senor Zamora/ says I, ‘of the charm of 
your daughter. It would give me great pleasure to be pre- 
sented to her/ 


68 


Roads of Destiny 

“There were about six dozen willow rocking-chairs, with 
pink tidies tied on to them, arranged against the walls. In one 
of them sat Seiiorita Anabela in white Swiss and red slippers, 
with pearls and fireflies in her hair. Fergus was at the other 
end of the room trying to break away from two maroons and a 
claybank girl. 

“The alcalde leads me up to Anabela and presents me. 
When she took the first look at my face she dropped her fan 
and nearly turned her chair over from the shock. But I’m 
used to that. 

“I sat down by her and began to talk. When she heard 
me speak she jumped, and her eyes got as big as alligator 
pears. She couldn’t strike a balance between the tones of 
my voice and the face I carried. But I kept on talking in 
the key of C, which is the ladies’ key; and presently she sat 
still in her chair and a dreamy look came into her eyes. She 
was coming my way. She knew of Judson Tate, and what a 
big man he was, and the big things he had done; and that 
was in my favour. But, of course, it was some shock to her 
to find out that I was not the pretty man that had been pointed 
out to her as the great Judson. And then I took the Spanish 
language, which is better than English for certain purposes, 
and played on it like a harp of a thousand strings. I ranged 
from the second G below the staff up to F-sharp above it. 
I set my voice to poetry, art, romance, flowers, and moonlight. 
I repeated some of the verses that I had murmured to her in 
the dark at her window; and I knew from a sudden soft 
sparkle in her eye that she recognized in my voice the tones 
of her midnight mysterious wooer. 

“Anyhow, I had Fergus McMahan going. Oh, the vocal 
is the true art — no doubt about that. Handsome is as hand- 
some palavers. That’s the renovated proverb. 

“I took Senorita Anabela for a walk in the lemon grove 
while Fergus, disfiguring himself with an ugly frown, was 


“Next to Reading Matter ” 


69 


waltzing with the claybank girl. Before we returned I had 
permission to come to her window in the patio the next evening 
at midnight and talk some more. 

“Oh, it was easy enough. In two weeks Anabela was en- 
gaged to me, and Fergus was out. He took it calm, for a 
handsome man, and told me he wasn’t going to give in. 

“ 'Talk may be all right in its place, Judson/ he says to 
me, 'although I’ve never thought it worth cultivating. But/ 
says he, ‘to expect mere words to back up successfully a face 
like yours in a lady’s good graces is like expecting a man to 
make a square meal on the ringing of a dinner-bell.’ 

“But I haven’t begun on the story I was going to tell you 
yet. 

“One day I took a long ride in the hot sunshine, and then 
took a bath in the cold waters of a lagoon on the edge of the 
town before I’d cooled off. 

“That evening after dark I called at the alcalde’s to see 
Anabela. I was calling regular every evening then, and we 
Were to be married in a month. She was looking like a bulbul, 
a gazelle, and a tea-rose, and her eyes were as soft and bright 
as two quarts of cream skimmed off from the Milky Way. 
She looked at my rugged features without any expression of 
fear or repugnance. Indeed, I fancied that I saw a look of 
deep admiration and affection, such as she had cast at Fergus 
vn the plaza. 

“I sat down, and opened my mouth to tell Anabela what she 
loved to hear — that she was a trust, monopolizing all the love- 
liness of earth. I opened my mouth, and instead of the usual 
vibrating words of love and compliment, there came forth a 
faint wheeze such as a baby with croup might emit. Not a 
word — not a syllable — not an intelligible sound. I had 
caught cold in my larygeal regions when I took my inju- 
dicious bath. 

“For two hours I sat trying to entertain Anabela. She 


70 


Roads of Destiny 

talked a certain amount, but it was perfunctory and diluted. 
The nearest approach I made to speech was to formulate a 
sound like a clam trying to sing ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave' 
at low tide. It seemed that Anabela’s eyes did not rest upon 
me as often as usual. I had nothing with which to charm her 
ears. We looked at pictures and she played the guitar occa- 
sionally, very badly. When I left, her parting manner 
seemed cool — or at least thoughtful. 

“This happened for five evenings consecutively. 

“On the sixth day she ran away with Fergus McMahan. 

“It was known that they fled in a sailing yacht bound for 
Belize. I was only eight hours behind them in a small steam 
launch belonging to the Revenue Department. 

“Before I sailed, I rushed into the botica of old Manuel 
Iquito, a half-breed Indian druggist. I could not speak, but 
I pointed to my throat and made a sound like escaping steam. 
He began to yawn. In an hour, according to the customs of 
the country, I would have been waited on. I reached across 
the counter, seized him by the throat, and pointed again to 
my own. He yawned once more, and thrust into my hand a 
small bottle containing a black liquid. 

‘Take one small spoonful every two hours/ says he. 

“I threw him a dollar and skinned for the steamer. 

“I steamed into the harbour at Belize thirteen seconds be- 
hind the yacht that Anabela and Fergus were on. They 
started for the shore in a dory just as my skiff was lowered 
over the side. I tried to order my sailormen to row faster, 
but the sounds died in my larynx before they came to the 
light. Then I thought of old Iquito’s medicine, and I got out 
his bottle and took a swallow of it. 

“The two boats landed at the same moment. I walked 
straight up to Anabela and Fergus. Her eyes rested upon 
me for an instant; then she turned them, full of feeling and 
confidence, upon Fergus. I knew I could not speak, but I 


71 


“Next to Reading Matter 

was desperate. In speech lay my only hope. I could not 
stand beside Fergus and challenge comparison in the way of 
beauty. Purely involuntarily, my larynx and epiglottis at- 
tempted to reproduce the sounds that my mind was calling 
upon my vocal organs to send forth. 

“To my intense surprise and delight the words rolled forth 
beautifully clear, resonant, exquisitely modulated, full of 
power, expression, and long-repressed emotion. 

“ ‘Senorita Anabela/ says I, 'may I speak with you aside 
for a moment ?’ 

“You don’t want details about that, do you? Thanks. 
The old eloquence had come back all right. I led her under a 
cocoanut palm and put my old verbal spell on her again. 

“ ‘Judson/ says she, ‘when you are talking to me I can 
hear nothing else — I can see nothing else — there is nothing 
and nobody else in the world for me/ 

“Well, that’s about all of the story. Anabela went back 
to Oratama in the steamer with me. I never heard what be- 
came of Fergus. I never saw him any more. Anabela is now 
Mrs. Judson Tate. Has my story bored you much?” 

“No,” said I. “I am always interested in psychological 
studies. A human heart — and especially a woman’s — is a 
wonderful thing to contemplate.” 

“It is,” said Judson Tate. “And so are the trachea and 
the bronchial tubes of man. And the larynx, too. Did you 
ever make a study of the windpipe?” 

“Never,” said I. “But I have taken much pleasure in your 
story. May I ask after Mrs. Tate, and inquire of her pres- 
ent health and whereabouts?” 

“Oh, sure,” said Judson Tate. “We are living in Bergen 
Avenue, Jersey City. The climate down in Oratama didn’t 
suit Mrs. T. I don’t suppose you ever dissected the arytenoid 
cartilages of the epiglottis, did you?” 

“Why, no,” said I, “I am no surgeon.” 


72 


Roads of Destiny 

“Pardon me/’ said Judson Tate, “but every man should 
know enough of anatomy and therapeutics to safeguard his 
own health. A sudden cold may set up capillary bronchitis 
or inflammation of the pulmonary vesicles, which may result in 
a serious affection of the vocal organs.” 

“Perhaps so,” said I, with some impatience; “but that is 
neither here nor there. Speaking of the strange manifesta- 
tions of the affection of women, I — ” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Judson Tate, “they have peculiar 
ways. But, as I was going to tell you: when I went back tft 
Oratama I found out from Manuel Iquito what was in that 
mixture he gave me for my lost voice. I told you how quick 
it cured me. He made that stuff from the chuchula plant. 
Now, look here.” 

' Judson Tate drew an oblong, white pasteboard box from 
his pocket. 

“For any cough,” he said, “or cold, or hoarseness, or bron- 
chial affection whatsoever, I have here the greatest remedy in 
the world. You see the formula printed on the box Each 
tablet contains licorice, 2 grains; balsam tolu, % 0 grain; oil 
of anise, minim; oil of tar, % 0 minim; oleo-resin of 
cubebs, % o minim; fluid extract of chuchula, % 0 minim. 

“I am in New York,” went on Judson Tate, “for the pur- 
pose of organizing a company to market the greatest remedy 
for throat affections ever discovered. At present I am intro- 
ducing the lozenges in a small way. I have here a box con- 
taining four dozen, which I am selling for the small sum of 
dfty cents. If you are suffering — ” 

I got up and went away without a word. I walked slowly 
up to the little park near my hotel, leaving Judson Tate alone 
with his conscience. My feelings were lacerated. He had 
poured gently upon me a story that I might have used. There 
was a little of the breath of life in it, and some of the syn- 


73 


" Next to Reading Matter” 

thetic atmosphere that passes, when cunningly tinkered, in 
the marts. And, at the last it had proven to be a commer- 
cial pill, deftly coated with the sugar of fiction. The worst 
of it was that I could not offer it for sale. Advertising de- 
partments and counting-rooms look down upon me. And it 
would never do for the literary. Therefore I sat upon a 
bench with other disappointed ones until my eyelids drooped, 
I went to my room, and, as my custom is, read for an hou* 
stories in my favourite magazines. This was to get my mine? 
back to art again. 

And as I read each story, I threw the magazines sadly and 
hopelessly, one by one, upon the floor. Each author, without 
one exception to bring balm to my heart, wrote liltingly and 
sprightly a story of some particular make of motor-car that 
seemed to control the sparking plug of his genius. 

And w T hen the last one was hurled from me I took heart. 
“If readers can swallow so many proprietary automobiles,” 
I said to myself, “they ought not to strain at one of Tate's 
Compound Magic Chuchula Bronchial Lozenges,” 

And so if you see this story in print you will understand 
that business is business, and that if Art gets very far ahead 
of Commerce, she will have to get up and hustle. 

I may as well add, to make a clean job of it, that you can't 
buy the chuchul « plant in the drug stores. 


VI 


ART AND THE BRONCO 

Out of the wilderness had come a painter. Genius, whose 
coronations alone are democratic, had woven a chaplet of 
chaparral for the brow of Lonny Briscoe. Art, whose divine 
expression flows impartially from the fingertips of a cowboy 
or a dilettante emperor, had chosen for a medium the Boy 
Artist of the San Saba. The outcome, seven feet by twelve 
of besmeared canvas, stood, gift-framed, in the lobby of the 
Capitol. 

The legislature was in session; the capital city of that great 
Western state was enjoying the season of activity and profit 
that the congregation of the solons bestowed. The boarding- 
houses were corralling the easy dollars of the gamesome law- 
makers. The greatest state in the West, an empire in area 
and resources, had arisen and repudiated the old libel or bar- 
barism, lawbreaking, and bloodshed. Order reigned within 
her borders. Life and property were as safe there, sir, as 
anywhere among the corrupt cities of the effete East. Pillow- 
shams. churches, strawberry feasts and habeas corpus flour- 
ished. With impunity might the tenderfoot ventilate his 
“stovepipe” or his theories of culture. The arts and sci' 
ences received nurture and subsidy. And, therefore, it be- 
hooved the legislature of this great state to make appropriation 
for the purchase of Lonny Briscoe's immortal painting. 

Rarely has the San Saba country contributed to the spread 
of the fine arts. Its sons have excelled in the soldier graces, 
in the throw of the lariat, the manipulation of the esteemed 

74 


Art and the Bronco 


75 


.45, the intrepidity of the one-card draw, and the nocturnal 
stimulation of towns from undue lethargy; but, hitherto, it 
had not been famed as a stronghold of aesthetics. Lonny 
Briscoe’s brush had removed that disability. Here, among the 
limestone rocks, the succulent cactus, and the drought-parched 
grass of that arid valley, had been born the Boy Artist. Why 
he came to woo art is beyond postulation. Beyond doubt, 
some spore of the afflatus must have sprung up within him in 
spite of the desert soil of San Saba. The tricksy spirit of 
creation must have incited him to attempted expression and 
then have sat hilarious among the white-hot sands of the valley, 
watching its mischievous work. For Lonny’s picture, viewed 
as a thing of art, was something to have driven away dull care 
from the bosoms of the critics. 

The painting — one might almost say panorama — was de- 
signed to portray a typical Western scene, interest culminating 
in a central animal figure, that of a stampeding steer, life-size, 
wild-eyed, fiery, breaking away in a mad rush from the herd 
that, close-ridden by a typical cowpuncher, occupied a position 
somewhat in the right background of the picture. The land- 
scape presented fitting and faithful accessories. Chaparral, 
mesquit, and pear were distributed in just proportions. A 
Spanish dagger-plant, with its waxen blossoms in a creamy 
aggregation as large as a water-bucket, contributed floral 
beauty and variety. The distance was undulating prairie, bi- 
sected by stretches of the intermittent streams peculiar to the 
region lined with the ricli green of live-oak and water-elm. 
A richly mottled rattlesnake lay coiled beneath a pale green 
clump of prickly pear in the foreground. A third of the can- 
vas was ultramarine and lake white — the typical Western 
sky and the flying clouds, rainless and feathery. 

Between two plastered pillars in the commodious hallway 
near the door of the chamber of representatives stood the 
painting. Citizens and lawmakers passed there by twos and 


76 


Roads of Destiny 

groups and sometimes crowds to gaze upon it. Many — per- 
haps a majority of them — had lived the prairie life and re- 
called easily the familiar scene. Old cattlemen stood, reminis- 
cent and candidly pleased, chatting with brothers of former 
camps and trails of the days it brought back to mind. Art 
critics were few in the town, and there was heard none of that 
jargon of colour, perspective, and feeling such as the East 
loves to use as a curb and a rod to the pretensions of the artist. 
’Twas a great picture, most of them agreed, admiring the gilt 
frame — larger than any they had ever seen. 

Senator Kinney was the picture’s champion and sponsor. 
It was he who so often stepped forward and asserted, with the 
voice of a bronco-buster, that it would be a lasting blot, sir, 
upon the name of this great state if it should decline to 
recognize in a proper manner the genius that had so bril- 
liantly transferred to imperishable canvas a scene so typical 
of the great sources of our state’s wealth and prosperity, land 
— and — er — live-stock. 

Senator Kinney represented a section of the state in the 
extreme West — 400 miles from the San Saba country — but 
the true lover of art is not limited by metes and bounds. Nor 
was Senator Mullens, representing the San Saba country, luke- 
warm in his belief that the state should purchase the painting 
of his constituent. He was advised that the San Saba country 
was unanimous in its admiration of the great painting by one 
of its own denizens. Hundreds of connoisseurs had straddled 
their broncos and ridden miles to view it before its removal 
to the capital. Senator Mullens desired reflection, and he 
knew the importance of the San Saba vote. He also knew that 
with the help of Senator Kinney — who was a power in the 
legislature — the thing could be put through. Now, Senator 
Kinney had an irrigation bill that he wanted passed for the 
benefit of his own section, and he knew Senator Mullens could 
render him valuable aid and information, the San Saba country 


Art and the Bronco 


77 


already enjoying the benefits of similar legislation. With 
these interests happily dovetailed, wonder at the sudden in- 
terest in art at the state capital must, necessarily, be small. 
Few artists have uncovered their first picture to the world 
under happier auspices than did Lonny Briscoe. 

Senators Kinney and Mullens came to an understanding in 
the matter of irrigation and art while partaking of long drinks 
in the cafe of the Empire Hotel. 

“H’m!” said Senator Kinney, “I don’t know. I’m no art 
critic, but it seems to me the thing won’t work. It looks like 
the worst kind of a chromo to me. I don’t want to cast any 
reflections upon the artistic talent of your constituent, Senator, 
but I, myself, wouldn’t give six bits for the picture — without 
the frame. How are you going to cram a thing like that down 
the throat of a legislature that kicks about a little item in the 
expense bill of six hundred and eighty-one dollars for rubber 
erasers for only one term? It’s wasting time. I’d like to 
help you, Mullens, but they’d laugh us out of the Senate cham- 
ber if we were to try it.” 

“But you don’t get the point,” said Senator Mullens, in his 
deliberate tones, tapping Kinney’s glass with his long fore- 
finger. “I have my own doubts as to what the picture is in- 
tended to represent, a bullfight or a Japanese allegory, but 
I want this legislature to make an appropriation to purchase. 
Of course, the subject of the picture should have been in the 
state historical line, but it’s too late to have the paint scraped 
off and changed. The state won’t miss the money and the 
picture can be stowed away in a lumber-room where it won’t 
annoy any one. Now, here’s the point to work on, leaving art 
to look after itself — the chap that painted the picture is the 
grandson of Lucien Briscoe.” 

“Say it again/’ said Kinney, leaning his head thoughtfully. 
*Df the old, original Lucien Briscoe?” 

' "’Of him. ‘The man who,’ you know. The man who 


78 


Roads of Destiny 

carved the state out of the wilderness. The man who settled 
the Indians. The man who cleaned out the horse thieves. 
The man who refused the crown. The state's favourite son. 
Do you see the point now?” 

“Wrap up the picture/' said Kinney. “It's as good as 
sold. Why didn’t you say that at first, instead of philander- 
ing along about art. I’ll resign my seat in the Senate and go 
back to chain-carrying for the county surveyor the day I can’t 
make this state buy a picture calcimined by a grandson of 
Lucien Briscoe. Did you ever hear of a special appropria- 
tion for the purchase of a home for the daughter of One-Eyed 
Smothers? Well, that went through like a motion to adjourn, 
and old One-Eyed never killed half as many Indians as 
Briscoe did. About what figure had you and the calciminer 
agreed upon to sandbag the treasury for?” 

“I thought,” said Mullens, “that maybe five hundred — ” 

“Five hundred!” interrupted Kinney, as he hammered on 
his glass for a lead pencil and looked around for a waiter. 
“Only five hundred for a red steer on the hoof delivered by a 
grandson of Lucien Briscoe! Where’s your state pride, man? 
Two thousand is what it’ll be. You’ll introduce the bill and 
I’ll get up on the floor of the Senate and wave the scalp of 
every Indian old Lucien ever murdered. Let’s see, there was 
something else proud and foolish he did, wasn’t there? Oh, 
yes; he declined all emoluments and benefits he was entitled 
to. Refused his head-right and veteran donation certificates. 
Could have been governor, but wouldn’t. Declined a pension. 
Now’s the state’s chance to pay up. It’ll have to take the pic- 
ture, but then it deserves some punishment for keeping the 
Briscoe family waiting so long. We’ll bring this thing up 
about the middle of the month, after the tax bill is settled. 
Now, Mullens, you send over, as soon as you can, and get me 
the figures on the cost of those irrigation ditches and the 
statistics about the increased production per acre. I’m going 


Art and the Bronco 


79 


to need you when that bill of mine comes up. I reckon we'll 
be able to pull along pretty well together this session and 
maybe others to come, eh, Senator?" 

Thus did fortune elect to smile upon the Boy Artist of the 
San Saba. Fate had already done her share when she ar- 
ranged his atoms in the cosmogony of creation as the grandson 
of Lucien Briscoe. 

The original Briscoe had been a pioneer both as to territorial 
occupation and in certain acts prompted by a great and simple 
heart. He had been one of the first settlers and crusaders 
against the wild forces of nature, the savage and the shallow 
politician. His name and memory were revered equally with 
any upon the list comprising Houston, Boone, Crockett, Clark, 
and Green. He had lived simply, independently, and unvexed 
by ambition. Even a less shrewd man than Senator Kinney 
could have prophesied that his state would hasten to honour 
and reward his grandson, come out of the chaparral at even so 
late a day. 

And so, before the great picture by the door of the cham- 
ber of representatives at frequent times for many days could 
be found the breezy, robust form of Senator Kinney and be 
heard his clarion voice reciting the past deeds of Lucien Briscoe 
in connection with the handiwork of his grandson. Senator 
Mullens’s work was more subdued in sight and sound, but di- 
rected along identical lines. 

Then, as the day for the introduction of the bill for ap- 
propriation draws nigh, up from the San Saba country rides 
Lonny Briscoe and a loyal lobby of cowpunchers, bronco- 
back, to boost the cause of art and glorify the name of friend- 
ship, for Lonny is one of them, a knight of stirrup and 
chaparreras, as handy with the lariat and .45 as he is with 
brush and palette. 

On a March afternoon the lobby dashed, with a whoop, into 
town. The cowpunchers had adjusted their garb suitable 


80 


Roads of Destiny 

from that prescribed for the range to the more conventional 
requirements of town. They had conceded their leather cha- 
parreras and transferred their six-shooters and belts from their 
persons to the horns of their saddles. Among them rode 
Lonny , a youth of twenty-three, brown, solemn-faced, ingen- 
uous, bowlegged, reticent, bestriding Hot Tamales, the most 
sagacious cow pony west of the Mississippi. Senator Mullens 
had informed him of the bright prospects of the situation; had 
even mentioned — so great was his confidence in the capable 
Kinney — the price that the state would, in all likelihood, pay. 
It seemed to Lonny that fame and fortune were in his hands. 
Certainly, a spark of the divine fire was in the little brown 
centaur’s breast, for he was counting the two thousand dol- 
lars as but a means to future development of his talent. Some 
day he would paint a picture even greater than this — one, say* 
twelve feet by twenty, full of scope and atmosphere and action. 

During the three days that yet intervened before the com- 
ing of the date fixed for the introduction of the bill, the 
centaur lobby did valiant service. Coatless, spurred, weather- 
tanned, full of enthusiasm expressed in bizarre terms, they 
loafed in front of the painting with tireless zeal. Reasoning 
not unshrewdly, they estimated that their comments upon its 
fidelity to nature would be received as expert evidence. 
Loudly they praised the skill of the painter whenever there 
were ears near to which such evidence might be profitably 
addressed. Lem Perry, the leader of the claque, had a some- 
what set speech, being uninventive in the construction of new 
phrases. 

“Look at that two-year-old, now,” he would say, waving a 
cinnamon-brown hand toward the salient point of the picture. 
“Why, dang my hide, the critter’s alive. I can jest hear him, 
‘lumpety-lump,’ a-cuttin’ away from the herd, pretendin’ he’s 
skeered. He’s a mean scamp, that there steer. Look at his 
eyes a-wallin’ and his tail a-wavin’. He’s true and nat’ral to 


Art and the Bronco 


81 


life. He’s jest hankerin’ fur a cow pony to round him up 
and send him scootin’ back to the bunch. Dang my hide ! 
jest look at that tail of his’n a-wavin’. Never knowed a steer 
.;o wave his tail any other way, dang my hide ef I did.” 

Jud Shelby, while admitting the excellence of the steer, 
resolutely confined himself to open admiration of the land- 
scape, to the end that the entire picture receive its meed of 
praise. 

“That piece of range,” he declared, “is a dead ringer for 
Dead Hoss Valley. Same grass^ same lay of the land, same 
old Whipperwill Creek skallyhootin’ in and out of them motts 
of timber. Them buzzards on the left is circlin’ ’round over 
Sam Kildrake’s old paint hoss that killed hisself over-drinkin’ 
on a hot day. You can’t see the hoss for that mott of ellums 
on the creek, but he’s thar. Anybody that was goin’ to look 
for Dead Hoss Valley and come across this picture, why, he’d 
jest light off’n his bronco and hunt a place to camp.” 

Skinny Rogers, wedded to comedy, conceived a complimen- 
tary little piece of acting that never failed to make an impres- 
sion. Edging quite near to the picture, he would suddenly, 
at favourable moments emit a piercing and awful “Yi-yi!” 
leap high and away, coming down with a great stamp of 
heels and whirring of rowels upon the stone-flagged floor. 

“Jeeming Christopher !” — so ran his lines — “thought that 
rattler was a gin-u-ine one. Ding baste my skin if I didn’t. 
Seemed to me I heard him rattle. Look at the blamed, un- 
converted msect a-layin’ under that pear. Little more, and 
somebody would a-been snake-bit.” 

With these artful dodges, contributed by Lonny’s faithful 
coterie, with the sonorous Kinney perpetually sounding the pic- 
ture’s merits, and with the solvent prestige of the pioneer 
Briscoe covering it like a precious varnish, it seemed that the 
San Saba country could not fail to add a reputation as an art 
cent** its well-known superiority in steer-roping contests 


82 


Roads of Destiny 

and achievements with the precarious busted flush. Thus was 
created for the picture an atmosphere, due rather to externals 
than to the artist's brush, but through it the people seemed 
to gaze with more of admiration. There was a magic in the 
name of Briscoe that counted high against faulty technique 
and crude colouring. The old Indian fighter and wolf slayer 
would have smiled grimly in his happy hunting grounds had 
he known that his dilettante ghost was thus figuring as an art 
patron two generations after his uninspired existence. 

Came the day when the Senate was expected to pass the 
bill of Senator Mullens appropriating two thousand dollars 
for the purchase of the picture. The gallery of the Senate 
chamber was early preempted by Lonny and the San Saba 
lobby. In the front row of chairs they sat, wild-haired, self- 
conscious, jingling, creaking, and rattling, subdued by the 
majesty of the council hall. 

The bill was introduced, went to the second reading, and 
then Senator Mullens spoke for it dryly, tediously, and at 
length. Senator Kinney then arose, and the welkin seized the 
bellrope preparatory to ringing. Oratory was at that time 
a living thing; the world had not quite come to measure its 
questions by geometry and the multiplication table. It was 
the day of* the silver tongue, the sweeping gesture, the decora- 
tive apostrophe, the moving peroration. 

The Senator spoke. The San Saba contingent sat, breath- 
ing hard, in the gallery, its disordered hair hanging down 
to its eyes, its sixteen-ounce hats shifted restlessly from knee 
to knee. Below, the distinguished Senators either lounged at 
their desks with the abandon of proven statesmanship or main- 
tained correct attitudes indicative of a first term. 

Senator Kinney spoke for an hour. History was his theme 
— history mitigated by patriotism and sentiment. He referred 
casually to the picture in the outer hall — it was unnecessary, 
he said, to dilate upon its merits — the Senators had seen for 


Art and the Bronco 


83 


themselves. The painter of the picture was the grandson 
of Lucien Briscoe. Then came the word-pictures of Briscoe’s 
life set forth in thrilling colours. His rude and venturesome 
life, his simple-minded love for the commonwealth he helped 
to upbuild, his contempt for rewards and praise, his extreme 
and sturdy independence, and the great services he had ren- 
dered the state. The subject of the oration was Lucien Bris- 
coe; the painting stood in the background serving simply as 
a means, now happily brought forward, through which the 
state might bestow a tardy recompense upon the descendant 
of its favourite son. Frequent enthusiastic applause from the 
Senators testified to the well reception of the sentiment. 

The bill passed without an opposing vote. To-morrow it 
would be taken up by the House. Already was it fixed to 
glide through that body on rubber tires. Blandford, Gray- 
son, and Plummer, all wheel-horses and orators, and provided 
with plentiful memoranda concerning the deeds of pioneer 
Briscoe, had agreed to furnish the motive power. 

The San Saba lobby and its protege stumbled awkwardly 
down the stairs and out into the Capitol yard. Then they 
herded closely and gave one yell of triumph. But one of 
them — Buck-Kneed Summers it was — hit the key with the 
thoughtful remark: 

“She cut the mustard,” he said, “all right. I reckon 
they’re goin’ to buy Lon’s steer. I ain’t right much on the 
parlymept’ry, but I gather that’s what the signs added up. 
But she seems to me, Lonny, the argyment ran principal fco- 
grandfather, instead of paint. It’s reasonable calculatin’ that 
you want to be glad you got the Briscoe brand on you, my 
son.” 

Tnat remark clinched in Lonny’s mind an unpleasant, vague 
suspicion to the same effect. His reticence increased, and he 
gathered grass from the ground, chewing it pensively. The 
picture as a picture had been humiliatingly absent from the 


84 


Roads of Destiny 

Senator's arguments. The painter had been held up as a 
grandson, pure and simple. While this was gratifying on cer- 
tain lines, it made art look little and slab-sided. The Boy 
Artist was thinking. 

The hotel Lonny stopped at was near the Capitol. It was 
near to the one o’clock dinner hour when the appropriation 
had been passed by the Senate. The hotel clerk told Lonny 
that a famous artist from New York had arrived in town that 
day and was in the hotel. He was on his way westward to 
New Mexico to study the effect of sunlight upon the ancient 
walls of the Zunis. Modern stone reflects light. Those an- 
cient building materials absorb it. The artist wanted this ef- 
fect in a picture he was painting and was traveling two thou- 
sand miles to get it. 

Loony sought this man out after dinner and told his story. 
The artist was an unhealthy man, kept alive by genius and in- 
difference to life. He went with Lonny to the Capitol and 
stood there before the picture. The artist pulled his beard 
and looked unhappy. 

“Should like to have your sentiments,” said Lonny, “just 
as they run out of the pen.” 

“It’s the way they’ll come,” said the painter man. “I 
took three different kinds of medicine before dinner — by the 
tablespoonful. The taste still lingers. I am primed for tell- 
ing the truth. You want to know if the picture is, or if it 
isn’t?” 

“Right,” said Lonny. “Is it wool or cotton? Should 1 
paint some more or cut it out and ride herd a-plenty?” 

“I heard a rumour during pie,” said the artist, “that the 
state is about to pay you two thousand dollars for this picture.” 

“It’s passed the Senate,” said Lonny, “and the House 
rounds it up to-morrow.” 

“That’s lucky,” said the pale man. “Do you carry a rab- 
bit’s foot?” 


Art and the Bronco 


85 


“No/* said Lonny, “but it seems I had a grandfather. 
He’s considerable mixed up in the colour scheme. It took 
me a year to paint that picture. Is she entirely awful or not? 
Some says, now, that that steer’s tail ain’t badly drawed. 
They think it’s proportioned nice. Tell me.” 

The artist glanced at Lonny’s wiry figure and nut-brown 
skin. Something stirred him to a passing irritation. 

“For Art’s sake, son,” he said, fractiously, “don’t spend 
any more money for paint. It isn’t a picture at all. It’s a 
gun. You hold up the state with it, if you like, and get your 
two thousand, but don’t get in front of any more canvas. Live 
under it. Buy a couple of hundred ponies with the money — 
I’m told they’re that cheap — and ride, ride, ride. Fill your 
lungs and eat and sleep and be happy. No more pictures. 
You look healthy. That’s genius. Cultivate it.” He looked 
at his watch. “Twenty minutes to three. Four capsules and 
one tablet at three. That’s all you wanted to know, isn’t 
it?” 

At three o’clock the cowpunchers rode up for Lonny, bring- 
ing Hot Tamales, saddled. Traditions must be observed. To 
celebrate the passage of the bill by the Senate the gang must 
ride wildly through the town, creating uproar and excitement. 
Liquor must be partaken of, the suburbs shot up, and the 
glory of the San Saba country vociferously proclaimed. A 
part of the programme had been carried out in the saloons on 
the way up. 

Lonny mounted Hot Tamales, the accomplished little beast 
prancing with fire and intelligence. He was glad to feel 
Lonny’s bowlegged grip against his ribs again. Lonny was 
his friend, and he was willing to do things for him. 

“Come on, boys,” said Lonny, urging Hot Tamales into 
a gallop with his knees. With a whoop, the inspired lobby 
tore after him through the dust. Lonny led his cohorts 
straight for the Capitol. With a wild yell, the gang indorsed 


86 Roads of Destiny 

his now evident intention of riding into it. Hooray for San 
Saba ! 

Up the six broad, limestone steps clattered the broncos of 
the cowpunchers. Into the resounding hallway they pattered, 
scattering in dismay those passing on foot. Lonny, in the 
lead, shoved Hot Tamales direct for the great picture. At that 
hour a downpouring, soft light from the second-story windows 
bathed the big canvas. Against the darker background of the 
hall the painting stood out with valuable effect. In spite of 
the defects of the art you could almost fancy that you gazed 
out upon a landscape. You might well flinch a step from the 
convincing figure of the life-sized steer stampeding across the 
grass. Perhaps it thus seemed to Hot Tamales. The scene 
was in his line. Perhaps he only obeyed the will of his rider. 
His ears pricked up; he snorted. Lonny leaned forward in 
the saddle and elevated his elbows, wing-like. Thus signals 
the cowpuncher to his steed to launch himself full speed ahead. 
Did Hot Tamales fancy he saw a steer, red and cavorting, that 
should be headed off and driven back to herd? There was 
a fierce clatter of hoofs, a rush, a gathering of steely flank 
muscles, a leap to the jerk of the bridle rein, and Hot Tamales, 
with Lonny bending low in the saddle to dodge the top of the 
frame, ripped through the great canvas like a shell from a 
mortar, leaving the cloth hanging in ragged shreds about a 
monstrous hole. 

Quickly Lonny pulled up his pony, and rounded the pillars* 
Spectators came running, too astounded to add speech to the 
commotion. The sergeant-at-arms of the House came forth, 
frowned, looked ominous, and then grinned. Many of tht 
legislators crowded out to observe the tumult. Lonny ’s cow- 
punchers were stricken to silent horror by his mad deed. 

Senator Kinney happened to be among the earliest to 
emerge. Before he could speak Lonny leaned in his saddle 


Art and the Bronco 87 

as Hot Tamales pranced, pointed his quirt at the Senator, 
and said, calmly: 

‘‘That was a fine speech you made to-day, mister, but you 
might as well let up on that ’propriation business. I ain’t 
askin’ the state to give me nothin’. I thought I had a picture 
to sell to it, but it wasn’t one. You said a heap of things 
about Grandfather Briscoe that makes me kind of proud I’m 
his grandson. Well, the Briscoes ain’t takin’ presents from 
the state yet. Anybody can have the frame that wants it. 
Hit her up, boys.” 

Away scuttled the San Saba delegation out of the hall, down 
*tfie steps, along the dusty street. 

Halfway to the San Saba country they camped that night. 
At bedtime Lonny stole away from the campfire and sought 
Hot Tamales, placidly eating grass at the end of his stake 
rope. Lonny hung upon his neck, and his art aspirations 
went forth forever in one long, regretful sigh. But as he thus 
made renunciation his breath formed a word or two. 

“You was the only one, Tamales, what seen anything in 
it. It did look like a steer, didn’t it, old hoss?” 


PHOEBE 


“YOU are a man of many novel adventures and varied enter- 
prises/' I said to Captain Patricio Malone. “Do you believe 
that the possible element of good luck or bad luck — if there 
is such a thing as luck — has influenced your career or per- 
sisted for or against you to such an extent that you were 
forced to attribute results to the operation of the aforesaid 
good luck or bad luck?" 

This question (of almost the dull insolence of legal phrase- 
ology) was put while we sat in Rousselin’s little red-tiled cafe 
near Congo Square in New Orleans. 

Brown-faced, white-hatted, finger-ringed captains of adven- 
ture came often to Rousselin’s for the cognac. They came 
from sea and land, and were chary of relating the things they 
had seen — not because they were more wonderful than the 
fantasies of the Ananiases of print, but because they were so 
different. And I was a perpetual wedding-guest, always striv- 
ing to cast my buttonhole over the finger of one of these 
mariners of fortune. This Captain Malone was a Hiberno- 
Iberian creole who had gone to and fro in the eartli and 
walked up and down in it. He looked like any other well- 
dressed man of thirty-five whom you might meet, except that 
he was hopelessly weather-tanned, and wore on his chain an 
ancient ivory-and-gold Peruvian charm against evil, which has 
nothing at all to do with his story. 


Phoebe 


89 


“My answer to your question,” said the captain, smiling, 
“will be to tell you the story of Bad-Luck Kearny. That 
is, if you don’t mind hearing it.” 

My reply was to pound on the table for Rousselin. 

“Strolling along Tchoupitoulas Street one night,” began 
Captain Malone, “I noticed, without especially taxing my in- 
terest, a small man walking rapidly toward me. He stepped 
upon a wooden cellar door, crashed through it, and disap- 
peared. I rescued him from a heap of soft coal below. He 
dusted himself briskly, swearing fluently in a mechanical 
tone, as an underpaid actor recites the gipsy’s curse. Grati- 
tude and the dust in his throat seemed to call for fluids to 
clear them away. His desire for liquidation was expressed so 
heartily that I went with him to a cafe down the street 
where we had some vile vermouth and bitters. 

“Looking across that little table I had my first clear sight 
of Francis Kearny. He was about five feet seven, but as 
tough as a cypress knee. His hair was darkest red, his mouth 
such a mere slit that you wondered how the flood of his words 
came rushing from it. His eyes were the brightest and light- 
est blue and the hopefulest that I ever saw. He gave the 
double impression that he was at bay and that you had better 
not crowd him further. 

“ Must in from a gold-hunting expedition on the coast of 
Costa Rica/ he explained. ‘Second mate of a banana 
steamer told me the natives were panning out enough from 
the beach sands to buy all the rum, red calico, and parlour 
melodeons in the world. The day I got there a syndicate 
named* Incorporated Jones gets a government concession to all 
minerals from a given point. For a next choice I take coast 
fever and count green and blue lizards for six weeks in a 
grass hut. I had to be notified when I was well, for the rep- 
tiles were actually there. Then I shipped back as third cook 
on a Norwegian tramp that blew up her boiler two miles below 


90 


Roads of Destiny 

Quarantine. I was due to bust through that cellar door here 
to-night, so I hurried the rest of the way up the river, rousta- 
bouting on a lower coast packet that made a landing for every 
fisherman that wanted a plug of tobacco. And now I’m here 
for what comes next. And it’ll be along, it’ll be along,’ said 
this queer Mr. Kearny; ‘it’ll be along on the beams of my 
bright but not very particular star.’ 

“From the first the personality of Kearny charmed me. 
I saw in him the bold heart, the restless nature, and the valiant 
front against the buffets of fate that make his countrymen 
such valuable comrades in risk and adventure. And just then 
I was wanting such men. Moored at a fruit company’s pier 
I had a 500-ton steamer ready to sail the next day with a 
cargo of sugar, lumber, and corrugated iron for a port in — 
well, let us call the country Esperando — it has not been long 
ago, and the name of Patricio Malone is still spoken there 
when its unsettled politics are discussed. Beneath the sugar 
and iron were packed a thousand Winchester rifles. In Aguas 
Frias, the capital, Don Rafael Valdevia, Minister of War, Es- 
perando’s greatest-hearted and most able patriot, awaited my 
coming. No doubt you have heard, with a smile, of the insig* 
nificant wars and uprisings in those little tropic republics. 
They make but a faint clamour against the din of great na- 
tions’ battles; but down there, under all the ridiculous uni- 
forms and petty diplomacy and senseless countermarching and 
intrigue, are to be found statesmen and patriots. Don Rafael 
Valdevia was one. His great ambition was to raise Esperando 
into peace and honest prosperity and the respect of the serious 
nations. So he waited for my rifles in Aguas Frias. But 
one would think I am trying to win a recruit in you! No; 
it was Francis Kearny I wanted. And so I told him, speak- 
ing long over our execrable vermouth, breathing the stifling 
odour from garlic and tarpaulins, which, as you know, is the 
distinctive flavour of cafes in the lower slant of our city. I 


Phoebe 


91 


spoke of the tyrant President Cruz and the burdens that his 
greed and insolent cruelty laid upon the people. And at that 
Kearny's tears flowed. And then I dried them with a picture 
of the fat rewards that would be ours when the oppressor 
should be overthrown and the wise and generous Valdevia in 
his seat. Then Kearny leaped to his feet and wrung my 
hand with the strength of a roustabout. He was mine, he 
said, till the last minion of the hated despot was hurled from 
the highest peaks of the Cordilleras into the sea. 

“I paid the score and we went out. Near the door Kear- 
ny's elbow overturned an upright glass showcase, smashing 
it into little bits. I paid the storekeeper the price he asked. 

“ ‘Come to my hotel for the night,' I said to Kearny. ‘We 
sail to-morrow at noon.' 

“He agreed; but on the sidewalk he fell to cursing again 
in the dull, monotonous, glib way that he had done when I 
pulled him out of the coal cellar. 

“ ‘Captain,' said he, ‘before we go any further, it's no more 
than fair to tell you that I'm known from Baffin’s Bay to Terra 
del Fuego as “Bad-Luck" Kearny. And I’m It. Every- 
thing I get into goes up in the air except a balloon. Every bet 
I ever made I lost except when I coppered it. Every boat I 
ever sailed on sank except the submarines. Everything I was 
ever interested in went to pieces except a patent bombshell 
that I invented. Everything I ever took hold of and tried to 
run I ran into the ground except when I tried to plough. And 
that's why they call me Bad-Luck Kearny. I thought I'd 
tell you.' 

“ ‘Bad luck,' said I, ‘or what goes by the name, may now 
and then tangle the affairs of any man. But if it persist be- 
yond the estimate of what we may call the “averages" there 
must be a cause for it.' 

“ ‘There is,' said Kearny emphatically, ‘and when we walk 
another square I will show it to you.’ 


92 


Roads of Destiny 

“Surprised, I kept by his side until we came to Canal Street 
and out into the middle of its great width. 

“Kearny seized me by an arm and pointed a tragic fore- 
finger at a rather brilliant star that shone steadily about thirty 
degrees above the horizon. 

“ ‘That's Saturn/ said he, ‘the star that presides over bad 
luck and evil and disappointment and nothing doing and trou- 
ble. I was born under that star. Every move I make, up 
bobs Saturn and blocks it. He’s the hoodoo planet of the 
heavens. They say he’s 73,000 miles in diameter and no 
solider of body than split-pea soup, and he’s got as many 
disreputable and malignant rings as Chicago. Now, what 
kind of a star is that to be born under?’ 

“I asked Kearny where he had obtained all this astonish- 
ing knowledge. 

“ ‘From Azrath, the great astrologer of Cleveland, Ohio/ 
said he. ‘That man looked at a glass ball and told me my 
name before I’d taken a chair. He prophesied the date of 
my birth and death before I’d said a word. And then he 
cast my horoscope, and the sidereal system socked me in the 
solar plexus. It was bad luck for Francis Kearny from A 
to Izard and for his friends that were implicated with him. 
For that I gave up ten dollars. This Azrath was sorry, but 
he respected his profession too much to read the heavens wrong 
for any man. It was night time, and he took me out on a 
balcony and gave me a free view of the sky. And he showed 
me which Saturn was, and how to find it in different balconies 
and longitudes. 

“ ‘But Saturn wasn’t all. He was only the man higher 
up. He furnishes so much bad luck that they allow him a 
gang of deputy sparklers to help hand it out. They're cir- 
culating and revolving and hanging around the main supply 
all the time, each one throwing the hoodoo on his own par- 
ticular district. 


Phoebe 


93 


“ ‘You see that ugly little red star about eight inches above 
and to the right of Saturn?' Kearny asked me. ‘Well, 
that’s her. That’s Phoebe. She’s got me in charge. “By 
the day of your birth,” says Azrath to me, “your life is sub- 
jected to the influence of Saturn. By the hour and minute of 
it you must dwell under the sway and direct authority of 
Phoebe, the ninth satellite.” So said this Azrath.’ Kearny 
shook his fist viciously skyward. ‘Curse her, she’s done her 
work well/ said he. ‘Ever since I was astrologized, bad luck 
has followed me like my shadow, as I told you. And for many 
years before. Now, Captain, I’ve told you my handicap as 
a man should. If you’re afraid this evil star of mine might 
cripple your scheme, leave me out of it.’ 

“I reassured Kearny as well as I could. I told him that 
for the time we would banish both astrology and astronomy 
from our heads. The manifest valour and enthusiasm of the 
"nan drew me. ‘Let us see what a little courage and diligence 
will do against bad luck,’ I said. ‘We will sail to-morrow for 
Esperando.’ 

“Fifty miles down the Mississippi our steamer broke her 
rudder. We sent for a tug to tow us back and lost three days. 
When we struck the blue waters of the Gulf, all the storm 
clouds of the Atlantic seemed to have concentrated above us. 
We thought surely to sweeten those leaping waves with our 
sugar, and to stack our arms and lumber on the floor of the 
Mexican Gulf. 

“Kearny did not seek to cast off one iota of the burden 
of our danger from the shoulders of his fatal horoscope. He 
weathered every storm on deck, smoking a black pipe, to keep 
which alight rain and sea-water seemed but as oil. And he 
shook his fist at the black clouds behind which his baleful star 
winked its unseen eye. When the skies cleared one evening, 
he reviled his malignant guardian with grim humour. 

“‘On watch, aren’t you, you red-headed vixen? Out mak- 


94 


Roads of Destiny 

ing it hot for little Francis Kearny and his friends, according 
to Hoyle. Twinkle, twinkle, little devil! You’re a lady, 
aren’t you? — dogging a man with bad luck just because he 
happened to be born while your boss was floorwalker. Get 
busy and sink the ship, you one-eyed banshee. Phoebe ! H’m ! 
Sounds as mild as a milkmaid. You can’t judge a woman by 
her name. Why couldn’t I have had a man star? I can’t 
make the remarks to Phoebe that I could to a man. Oh, 
Phoebe, you be — blasted !* 

“For eight days gales and squalls and waterspouts beat 
os from our course. Five days only should have landed us in 
Esperando. Our Jonah swallowed the bad credit of it with 
appealing frankness; but that scarcely lessened the hardships 
our cause was made to suffer. 

“At last one afternoon we steamed into the calm estuary of 
the little Rio Escondido. Three miles up this we crept, feel- 
ing for the shallow channel between the low banks that were 
crowded to the edge with gigantic trees and riotous vegeta- 
tion. Then our whistle gave a little toot, and in five minutes 
we heard a shout, and Carlos — my brave Carlos Quintana — 
crashed through the tangled vines waving his cap madly for 

j°y* 

“A hundred yards away was his camp, where three hundred 
chosen patriots of Esperando were awaiting our coming. For 
a month Carlos had been drilling them there in the tactics of 
war, and filling them with the spirit of revolution and liberty. 

“‘My Captain — compadre mio ! 9 shouted Carlos, while yet 
my boat was being lowered. ‘You should see them in the 
drill by companies — in the column wheel — in the march by 
fours — they are superb ! Also in the manual of arms — but, 
alas ! performed only with sticks of bamboo. The guns, capi - 
tan — say that you have brought the guns !’ 

“ ‘A thousand Winchesters, Carlos/ I called to him. ‘And 
two Gatlings/ 


Phoebe 95 

“ ‘Valgame Dios!* lie cried, throwing his cap in the air. 
"We shall sweep the world!’ 

“At that moment Kearny tumbled from the steamer’s side 
into the river. He could not swim, so the crew threw him a 
rope and drew him back aboard. I caught his eye and his 
look of pathetic but still bright and undaunted consciousness 
of his guilty luck. I told myself that although he might be 
a man to shun, he was also one to be admired. 

“I gave orders to the sailing-master that the arms, am- 
munition, and provisions were to be landed at once. That 
was easy in the steamer’s boats, except for the two Gatling 
guns. For their transportation ashore we carried a stout flat- 
boat, brought for the purpose in the steamer’s hold. 

“In the meantime I walked with Carlos to the camp and 
made the soldiers a little speech in Spanish, which they re- 
ceived with enthusiasm; and then I had some wine and a cig- 
arette in Carlos’s tent. Later we walked back to the river to 
see how the unloading was being conducted. 

“The small arms and provisions were already ashore, and 
the petty officers had squads of men conveying them to camp. 
One Gatling had been safely landed; the other was just being 
hoisted over the side of the vessel as we arrived. I noticed 
Kearny darting about on board, seeming to have the ambition 
of ten men, and to be doing the work of five. I think his zeal 
bubbled over when he saw Carlos and me. A rope’s end was 
swinging loose from some part of the tackle. Kearny leaped 
impetuously and caught it. There was a crackle and a hiss and 
a smoke of scorching hemp, and the Gatling dropped straight 
as a plummet through the bottom of the flatboat and buried 
itself in twenty feet of water and five feet of river mud. 

“I turned my back on the scene. I heard Carlos’s loud 
cries as if from some extreme grief too poignant for words. 
I heard the complaining murmur of the crew and the maledic^ 
tions of Torres, the sailing-master — I could not bear to look. 


96 


Roads of Destiny 

“By night some degree of order had been restored in camp. 
Military rules were not drawn strictly, and the men were 
grouped about the fires of their several messes, playing games 
of chance, singing their native songs, or discussing with voluble 
animation the contingencies of our march upon the capital. 

“To my tent, which had been pitched for me close to that 
of my chief lieutenant, came Kearny, indomitable, smiling, 
bright-eyed, bearing no traces of the buffets of his evil star. 
Rather was his aspect that of a heroic martyr whose tribula- 
tions were so high-sourced and glorious that he even took a 
splendour and a prestige from them. 

“ ‘Well, Captain/ said he, T guess you realize that Bad- 
Luck Kearny is still on deck. It was a shame, now, about 
that gun. She only needed to be slewed two inches to clear 
the rail; and that’s why I grabbed that rope’s end. Whc’d 
have thought that a sailor — even a Sicilian lubber on a ba- 
nana coaster — would have fastened a line in a bow-knot? 
Don’t think I’m trying to dodge the responsibility, Captain 
It’s my luck/ 

“ ‘There are men, Kearny/ said I gravely, ‘who pass 
through life blaming upon luck and chance the mistakes that 
result from their own faults and incompetency. I do not say 
that you are such a man. But if all your mishaps are trace- 
able to that tiny star, the sooner we endow our colleges with 
chairs of moral astronomy, the better.’ 

“‘It isn’t the size of the star that counts/ said Kearny; 
‘it’s the quality. Just the way it is with women. That’s why 
they gave the biggest planets masculine names, and the little 
stars feminine ones — to even things up when it comes to get- 
ting their work in. Suppose they had called my star Agamem- 
non or Bill McCarty or something like that instead of Phcrbe. 
Every time one of those old boys touched their calamity but- 
ton and sent me down one of their wireless pieces of bad luek, 
I could talk back and tell ’em what I thought of ’em in suit- 


Phoebe 97 

able terms. But you can’t address such remarks to a 
Phoebe/ 

“ 'It pleases you to make a joke of it. Kearny/ said I, 
without smiling. ‘But it is no joke to me to think of my Gat- 
ling mired in the river ooze/ 

“ ‘As to that/ said Kearny, abandoning his light mood at 
once, ‘1 have already done what I could. I have had some 
experience in hoisting stone in quarries. Torres and I have 
already spliced three hawsers and stretched them from the 
steamer’s stern to a tree on shore. We will rig a tackle and 
have the gun on terra firma before noon to-morrow/ 

“One could not remain long at outs with Bad-Luck Kearny. 

“ ‘Once more/ said I to him, ‘we will waive this question 
of luck. Have you ever had experience in drilling raw 
troops ?* 

“ ‘I was first sergeant and drill-master/ said Kearny, ‘in 
the Chilean army for one year. And captain of artillery for 
another/ 

“ ‘What became of your command ?’ I asked. 

“ ‘Shot down to a man/ said Kearny, ‘during the revolu- 
tions against Balmaceda/ 

“Somehow the misfortunes of the evil-starred one seemed 
to turn to me their comedy side. I lay back upon my goat’s- 
hide cot and laughed until the woods echoed. Kearny grinned. 
‘I told you how it was/ he said. 

“ ‘To-morrow/ I said, ‘I shall detail one hundred men un- 
der your command for manual-of-arms drill and company evo- 
lutions. You will rank as lieutenant. Now, for God’s sake, 
Kearny/ I urged him, ‘tr} T to combat this superstition if it 
is one. Bad luck may be like any other visitor — preferring 
to stop where it is expected. Get your mind off stars. Look 
upon Esperando as your planet of good fortune/ 

“ ‘I thank you. Captain/ said Kearny quietly. ‘I will try 
to make it the best handicap I ever ran/ 


98 


Roads of Destiny 

“By noon the next day the submerged Gatling was res- 
cued, as Kearny had promised. Then Carlos and Manuel 
Ortiz and Kearny (my lieutenants) distributed Winchesters 
among the troops and put them through an incessant rifle drill. 
We fired no shots, blank or solid, for of all coasts Esperando 
is the stillest; and we had no desire to sound any warnings in 
the ear of that corrupt government until they should carry with 
them the message of Liberty and the downfall of Oppres- 
sion. 

“In the afternoon came a mule-rider bearing a written 
message to me from Don Rafael Valdevia in the capital, Aguas 
Frias. 

“Whenever that man's name comes to my lips, words of 
tribute to his greatness, his noble simplicity, and his conspicu- 
ous genius follow irrepressibly. He was a traveller, a student 
of peoples and governments, a master of sciences, a poet, an 
orator, a leader, a soldier, a critic of the world’s campaigns 
and the idol of the people of Esperando. I had been honoured 
by his friendship for years. It was I who first turned his 
mind to the thought that he should leave for his monument a 
new Esperando — a country freed from the rule of unscrupu- 
lous tyrants, and a people made happy and prosperous by wise 
and impartial legislation. When he had consented he threw 
himself into the cause with the undivided zeal with which he 
endowed all of his acts. The coffers of his fortune were 
opened to those of us to whom were entrusted the secret moves 
of the game. His pojDularity was already so great that he 
had practically forced President Cruz to offer him the port- 
folio of Minister of War. 

“The time, Don Rafael said in his letter, was ripe. Success, 
he prophesied, was certain. The people were beginning to 
clamour publicly against Cruz's misrule. Bands of citizens in 
the capital were even going about of nights hurling stones at 
public buildings and expressing their dissatisfaction. A 


Phoebe 


99 


bronze statue of President Cruz in the Botanical Gardens had 
been lassoed about the neck and overthrown. It only remained 
for me to arrive with my force and my thousand rifles, and for 
himself to come forward and proclaim himself the people’s 
saviour, to overthrow Cruz in a single day. There would be 
but a half-hearted resistance from the six hundred government 
troops stationed in the capital. The country was ours. He 
presumed that by this time my steamer had arrived at Quin- 
tana’s camp. He proposed the eighteenth of July for the 
attack. That would give us six days in which to strike camp 
and march to Aguas Frias. In the meantime Don Rafael 
remained my good friend and compadre en la causa de la 
libertad. 

“On the morning of the 14th we began our march toward 
the sea-following range of mountains, over the sixty-mile trail 
co the capital. Our small arms and provisions were laden on 
pack mules. Twenty men harnessed to each Gatling gun 
rolled them smoothly along the flat, alluvial lowlands. Our 
troops, well-shod and well-fed, moved with alacrity and hearti- 
ness. I and my three lieutenants were mounted on the tough 
mountain ponies of the country. 

“A mile out of camp one of the pack mules, becoming stub- 
born, broke away from the train and plunged from the path 
into the thicket. The alert Kearny spurred quickly after it 
and intercepted its flight. Rising in his stirrups, he released 
one foot and bestowed upon the mutinous animal a hearty kick. 
The mule tottered and fell with a crash broadside upon the 
ground. As we gathered around it, it walled its great eyes 
almost humanly toward Kearny and expired. That was bad; 
but worse, to our minds, was the concomitant disaster. Part 
of the mule’s burden had been one hundred pounds of the 
finest coffee to be had in the tropics. The bag burst and 
spilled the priceless brown mass of the ground berries among 
the dense vines and wseds of the swampy land. Mala suerte! 


100 


Roads of Destiny 

When you take away from an Esperandan his coffee, you ab- 
stract his patriotism and 50 per cent, of his value as a soldier. 
The men began to rake up the precious stuff ; but I beckoned 
Kearny back along the trail where they would not hear. The 
limit had been reached. 

“I took from my pocket a wallet of money and drew out 
some bills. 

“ 'Mr. Kearny/ said I, 'here are some funds belonging to 
Don Rafael Valdevia, which I am expending in his cause. I 
know of no better service it can buy for him than this. Here 
is one hundred dollars. Luck or no luck, we part company 
here. Star or no star, calamity seems to travel by your side. 
You will return to the steamer. She touches at Amotapa to 
discharge her lumber and iron, and then puts back to New Or- 
leans. Hand this note to the sailing-master, who will give you 
passage.’ I wrote on a leaf torn from my book, and placed 
it and the money in Kearny’s hand. 

" 'Good-bye,’ I said, extending my own. ‘It is not that I 
am displeased with you; but there is no place in this expe- 
dition for — let us say, the Senorita Phoebe.’ I said this with 
a smile, trying to smooth the thing for him. 'May you have 
better luck, companero * 

“Kearney took the money and the paper. 

“ 'It was just a little touch,’ said he, 'just a little lift with 
the toe of my boot — but what’s the odds? — that blamed 
mule would have died if I had only dusted his ribs with a 
powder J 3 uff. It was my luck. Well, Captain, I would have 
liked to be in that little fight with you over in Aguas Frias. 
Success to the cause. Adios!’ 

“He turned around and set off down the trail without look- 
ing back. The unfortunate mule’s pack-saddle was trans- 
ferred to Kearny’s pony, and we again took up the march. 

“Four days we journeyed over the foot-hills and mountains, 
fording icy torrents, winding around the crumbling brows of 


Phoebe 


101 


ragged peaks, creeping along tlie rocky flanges that overlooked 
awful precipices, crawling breathlessly over tottering bridges 
that crossed bottomless chasms. 

“On the evening of the seventeenth we camped by a little 
stream on the bare hills five miles from Aguas Frias. At 
daybreak we were to take up the march again. 

“At midnight I was standing outside my tent inhaling the 
fresh cold air. The stars were shining bright in the cloud- 
less sky, giving the heavens their proper aspect of illimitable 
depth and distance when viewed from the vague darkness of 
the blotted earth. Almost at its zenith was the planet Saturn ; 
and with a half-smile I observed the sinister red sparkle of 
his malignant attendant — the demon star of Kearny’s ill 
luck. And then my thoughts strayed across the hills to the 
scene of our coming triumph where the heroic and noble Don 
Rafael awaited our coming to set a new and shining star in 
the firmament of nations. 

“I heard a slight rustling in the deep grass to my right. I 
turned and saw Kearny coming toward me. He was ragged 
and dew-drenched and limping. His hat and one boot were 
gone. About one foot he had tied some makeshift of cloth 
and grass. But his manner as he approached was that of a 
man who knows his own virtues well enough to be superior to 
rebuffs. 

“ ‘Well, sir/ I said, staring at him coldly, ‘if there is any- 
thing in persistence, I see no reason why you should not suc- 
ceed in wrecking and ruining us yet/ 

“ ‘I kept half a day’s journey behind/ said Kearny, fishing 
out a stone from the covering of his lame foot, ‘so the bad 
luck wouldn’t touch you. I couldn’t help it, Captain ; I wanted 
to be in on this game. It was a pretty tough trip, especially 
in the department of the commissary. In the low grounds 
there were always bananas and oranges. Higher up it was 
worse; but your men left a good deal of goat meat hanging 


102 


Roads of Destiny 

on the bushes in the camps. Here's your hundred dollars. 
You’re nearly there now, captain. Let me in on the scrapping 
to-morrow.' 

“ ‘Not for a hundred times a hundred would I have the 
tiniest thing go wrong with my plans now/ I said, ‘whether 
caused by evil planets or the blunders of mere man. But 
yonder is Aguas Frias, five miles away, and a clear road. I 
am of the mind to defy Saturn and all his satellites to spoil 
our success now. At any rate, I will not turn away to-night as 
weary a traveller and as good a soldier as you are, Lieutenant 
Kearny. Manuel Ortiz’s tent is there by the brightest fire. 
Rout him out and tell him to supply you with food and 
blankets and clothes. We march again at daybreak.’ 

“Kearny thanked me briefly but feelingly and moved away. 

“He had gone scarcely a dozen steps when a sudden flash 
of bright light illumined the surrounding hills; a sinister, 
growing, hissing sound like escaping steam filled my ears. 
Then followed a roar as of distant thunder, which grew louder 
every instant. This terrifying noise culminated in a tre- 
mendous explosion, which seemed to rock the hills as an earth- 
quake would; the illumination waxed to a glare so fierce that I 
clapped my hands to my eyes to save them. I thought the 
end of the world had come. I could think of no natural 
phenomenon that would explain it. My wits were staggering. 
The deafening explosion trailed off into the rumbling roar 
that had preceded it; and through this I heard the frightened 
shouts of my troops as they stumbled from their resting-places 
and rushed wildly about. Also I heard the harsh tones of 
Kearny’s voice crying: ‘They’ll blame it on me, of course, 
and what the devil it is, it’s not Francis Kearny that can give 
you an answer.’ 

“I opened my eyes. The hills were still there, dark and 
solid. It had not been, then, a volcano or an earthquake. I 
looked up at the sky and saw a comet-like trail crossing the 




Phoebe 103 

zenith and extending westward — a fiery trail waning fainter 
and narrower each moment. 

“ ‘A meteor !’ I called aloud. ‘A meteor has fallen. There 
is no danger/ 

“And then all other sounds were drowned by a great shout 
from Kearny’s throat. He had raised both hands above his 
head and was standing tiptoe. 

“ ‘PHCFBE’S GONE !’ he cried, with all his lungs. 
‘She’s busted and gone to hell. Look, Captain, the little red- 
headed hoodoo has blown herself to smithereens. She found 
Kearny too tough to handle, and she puffed up with spite 
and meanness till her boiler blew up. It’ll be Bad-Luck 
Kearny no more. Oh, let us be joyful! 

“‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall; 

Humpty busted, and that’ll be all !’ 

“I looked up, wondering, and picked out Saturn in his 
place. But the small red twinkling luminary in his vicinity, 
which Kearny had pointed out to me as his evil star, had 
vanished. I had seen it there but half an hour before; there 
was no doubt that one of those awful and mysterious spasms 
of nature had hurled it from the heavens. 

“I clapped Kearney on the shoulder. 

“ ‘Little man/ said I, ‘let this clear the way for you. It 
appears that astrology has failed to subdue you. Your horo- 
scope must be cast anew with pluck and loyalty for controlling 
stars. I play you to win. Now, get to your tent, and sleep. 
Daybreak is the word/ 

“At nine o’clock on the morning of the eighteenth of July 
I rode into Aguas Frias with Kearny at my side. In his 
clean linen suit and with his military poise and keen eye he was 
a model of a fighting adventurer. I had visions of him riding 
as commander of President Valdevia’s body-guard when the 
plums of the new republic should begin to fall. 


104 . 


Roads of Destiny 

“Carlos followed with the troops and supplies. He was 
to halt in a wood outside the town and remain concealed there 
until he received the word to advance. 

“Kearny and I rode down the Calle Ancha toward the 
residencia of Don Rafael at the other side of the town. As 
we passed the superb white buildings of the University of Es- 
perando, I saw at an open window the gleaming spectacles and 
bald head of Herr Bergowitz. professor of the natural sciences 
and friend of Don Rafael and of me and of the cause. He 
waved his hand to me, with his broad, bland smile. 

“There was no excitement apparent in Aguas Frias. Th© 
people went about leisurely as at all times; the market was 
thronged with bareheaded women buying fruit and came ; we 
heard the twang and tinkle of string bands in the patios of 
the cantinas. We could see that it was a waiting game that 
Dan Rafael was playing. 

“His residencia was a large but low building around a 
great courtyard in grounds crowded with ornamental trees and 
tropic shrubs. At his door an old woman who came informed 
us that Don Rafael had not yet arisen. 

“ 'Tell him/ said I, 'that Captain Malone and a friend 
wish to see him at once. Perhaps he has overslept/ 

“She came back looking frightened. 

“ 'I have called/ she said, 'and rung his bell many times, 
but he does not answer/ 

“I knew where his sleeping-room was. Kearny and I 
pushed by her and went to it. I put my shoulder against 
the thin door and forced it open. 

“In an armchair by a great table covered with maps and 
books sat Don Rafael with his eyes closed. I touched his 
hand. He had been dead many hours. On his head above 
one ear was a wound caused by a heavy blow. It had ceased 
to bleed long before^ 


Phoebe 105 

“I made the old woman call a mozo, and dispatched him 
in haste to fetch Herr Bergowitz. 

‘‘He came, and we stood about as if we were half stunned 
by the awful shock. Thus can the letting of a few drops of 
blood from one man’s veins drain the life of a nation. 

“Presently Herr Bergowitz stooped and picked up a dark- 
ish stone the size of an orange which he saw under the table. 
He examined it closely through his great glasses with the eye 
of science. 

“ ‘A fragment/ said he, ‘of a detonating meteor. The 
most remarkable one in twenty years exploded above this 
city a little after midnight this morning/ 

“The professor looked quickly up at the ceiling. We saw 
the blue sky through a hole the size of an orange nearly above 
Don Rafael’s chair. 

“I heard a familiar sound, and turned. Kearny had 
thrown himself on the floor and was babbling his compendium 
of bitter, blood-freezing curses against the star of his evil 
luck. 

“Undoubtedly Phoebe had been feminine. Even when 
hurtling on her way to fiery dissolution and everlasting doom, 
the last word had been hers/ , 

Captain Malone was not unskilled in narrative. He knew 
the point where a story should end. I sat reveling in his 
effective conclusion when he aroused me by continuing: 

“Of course,” said he, “our schemes were at an end. There 
was no one to take Don Rafael’s place. Our little army 
melted away like dew before the sun. 

“One day after I had returned to New Orleans I related 
this story to a friend who holds a professorship in Tulane 
University. 

“When I had finished he laughed and asked whether I had 


106 


Roads of Destiny 

any knowledge of Kearny’s luck afterward. I told him no, 
that I had seen him no more ; but that when he left me, he had 
expressed confidence that his future would be successful now 
that his unlucky star had been overthrown. 

“ ‘No doubt/ said the professor, ‘he is happier not to know 
one fact. If he derives his bad luck from Phoebe, the ninth 
satellite of Saturn, that malicious lady is still engaged in 
overlooking his career. The star close to Saturn that he im- 
agined to be her was near that planet simply by the chance 
of its orbit — probably at different times he has regarded 
many other stars that happened to be in Saturn’s neighbour- 
hood as his evil one. The real Phoebe is visible only through 
a very good telescope.’ 

“ About a year afterward,” continued Captain Malone, “I 
was walking down a street that crossed the Poydras Market, 
An immensely stout, pink-faced lady in black satin crowded 
me from the narrow sidewalk with a frown. Behind her 
trailed a little man laden to the gunwales with bundles and 
bags of goods and vegetables. 

“It was Kearny — but changed. I stopped and shook one 
of his hands, which still clung to a bag of garlic and red 
peppers. 

“ ‘How is the luck, old companerof’ I asked him. I had 
not the heart to tell him the truth about his star. 

“ ‘Well/ said he, ‘I am married, as you may guess/ 

“‘Francis!’ called the big lady, in deep tones, ‘are you 
going to stop in the street talking all day?’ 

“ ‘I am coming, Phoebe dear/ said Kearny, hastening after 
her.” 

Captain Malone ceased again. 

“After all, do you believe in luck?” I asked. 

“Do you?” answered the captain, with his ambiguous 
smile shaded by the brim of his soft straw hat- 




VIII 

A DOUBLE-DYED DECEIVER 

The trouble began in Laredo. It was tlie Llano Kid’s 
fault, for he should have confined his habit of manslaughter 
to Mexicans. But the Kid was past twenty; and to have only 
Mexicans to one’s credit at twenty is to blush unseen on the 
Rio Grande border. 

It happened in old Justo Valdo’s gambling house. There 
was a poker game at which sat players who were not all 
friends, as happens often where men ride in from afar to 
shoot Folly as she gallops. There was a row over so small 
a matter as a pair of queens ; and when the smoke had cleared 
away it was found that the Kid had committed an indiscretion, 
and his adversary had been guilty of a blunder. For, the un- 
fortunate combatant, instead of being a Greaser, was a high- 
blooded youth from the cow ranches, of about the Kid’s own 
age and possessed of friends and champions. His blunder in 
missing the Kid’s right ear only a sixteenth of an inch when he 
pulled his gun did not lessen the indiscretion of the better 
marksman. 

The Kid, not being equipped with a retinue, nor bountifully 
supplied with personal admirers and supporters — on account 
of a rather umbrageous reputation, even for the border — con- 
sidered it not incompatible with his indisputable gameness to 
perform that judicious tractional act known as “pulling his 
freight.” 

Quickly the avengers gathered and sought him. Three of 
diem overtook him within a rod of the station, Th* Kid 

1M7 


108 


Roads of Destiny 

turned and showed his teeth in that brilliant but mirthless 
smile that usually preceded his deeds of insolence and violence, 
and his pursuers fell back without making it necessary for 
him even to reach for his weapon. 

But in this affair the Kid had not felt the grim thirst for 
encounter that usually urged him on to battle. It had been 
a purely chance row, born of the cards and certain epithets 
impossible for a gentleman to brook that had passed between 
the two. The Kid had rather liked the slim, haughty, brown- 
faced young chap whom his bullet had cut off in the first pride 
of manhood. And now he wanted no more blood. He wanted 
to get away and have a good long sleep somewhere in the sun 
on the mesquit grass with his handkerchief over his face. 
Even a Mexican might have crossed his path in safety while 
he was in this mood. 

The Kid openly boarded the north-bound passenger train 
that departed five minutes later. But at Webb, a few miles 
out, where it was flagged to take on a traveller, he abandoned 
that manner of escape. There were telegraph stations ahead; 
and the Kid looked askance at electricity and steam. Saddle 
and spur were his rocks of safety. 

The man whom he had shot was a stranger to him. But 
the Kid knew that he was of the Coralitos outfit from Hidalgo ; 
and that the punchers from that ranch were more relentless 
and vengeful than Kentucky feudists when wrong or harm 
was done to one of them. So, with the wisdom that has char- 
acterized many great fighters, the Kid decided to pile up as 
many leagues as possible of chaparral and pear between him- 
self and the retaliation of the Coralitos bunch. 

Near the station was a store; and near the store, scattered 
among the mesquits and elms, stood the saddled horses of the 
customers. Most of them waited, half asleep, with sagging 
limbs and drooping heads. But one, a long-legged roan with 
a curved neck, snorted and pawed the turf. Him the Kid 


A Double-Dyed Deceiver 100 

mounted, gripped with his knees, and slapped gently with 
the owner’s own quirt. 

If the slaying of the temerarious card-player had cast a 
cloud over the Kid’s standing as a good and true citizen, this 
last act of his veiled his figure in the darkest shadows of dis- 
repute. On the Rio Grande border if you take a man’s life 
you sometimes take trash; but if you take his horse, you take 
a thing the loss of which renders him poor, indeed, and which 
enriches you not — if you are caught. For the Kid there was 
no turning back now. 

With the springing roan under him he felt little care or 
uneasiness. After a five-mile gallop he drew in to the plains- 
man’s jogging trot, and rode northeastward toward the Nueces 
River bottoms. He knew the country well — its most tortuous 
and obscure trails through the great wilderness of brush and 
pear, and its camps and lonesome ranches where one might 
find safe entertainment. Always he bore to the east; for the 
Kid had never seen the ocean, and he had a fancy to lay his 
hand upon the mane of the great Gulf, the gamesome colt of 
the greater waters. 

So after three days he stood on the shore at Corpus Christi, 
and looked out across the gentle ripples of a quiet sea. 

Captain Boone, of the schooner Flyaway, stood near his 
skiff, which one of his crew was guarding in the surf. When 
ready to sail he had discovered that one of the necessaries of 
life, in the parallelogrammatic shape of plug tobacco, had been 
forgotten. A sailor had been dispatched for the missing car- 
go. Meanwhile the captain paced the sands, chewing pro- 
fanely at his pocket store. 

A slim, wiry youth in high-heeled boots came down to the 
water’s edge. His face was boyish, but with a premature 
severity that hinted at a man’s experience. His complexion 
was naturally dark; and the sun and wind of an outdoor life 
bad burned it to a coffee brown. His hair was as black and 


110 


Roads of Destiny 

straight as an Indian's ; his face had not yet been upturned to 
the humiliation of a razor; his eyes were a cold and steady 
blue. He carried his left arm somewhat away from his body, 
for pearl-handled .45s are frowned upon by town marshals, 
and are a little bulky when packed in the left armhole of 
one's vest. He looked beyond Captain Boone at the gulf with 
the impersonal and expressionless diginity of a Chinese em- 
peror. 

“Thinkin' of buyin' that'ar gulf, buddy?" asked the cap- 
tain, made sarcastic by his narrow escape from the tobaccoless 
voyage. 

“Why, no," said the Kid gently, “I reckon not. I never 
saw it before. I was just looking at it. Not thinking of 
selling it, are you ? " 

“Not this trip," said the captain. “I’ll send it to you 
C. O. D. when I get back to Buenas Tierras. Here comes 
that capstanfooted lubber with the chewin'. I ought to've 
weighed anchor an hour ago." 

“Is that your ship out there?" asked the Kid. 

“Why, yes," answered the captain, “if you want to call a 
schooner a ship, and I don't mind lyin'. But you better say 
Miller and Gonzales, owners, and ordinary plain, Billy-be- 
damned old Samuel K. Boone, skipper." 

“Where are you going to?" asked the refugee. 

“Buenas Tierras, coast of South America — I forgot what 
they called the country the last time I was there. Cargo — # 
lumber, corrugated iron, and machetes." 

“What kind of a country is it?" asked the Kid — “hot or 
cold?" 

“Warmish, buddy," said the captain. “But a regular 
Paradise Lost for elegance of scenery and be-yooty of geo- 
graphy. Ye're wakened every morning by the sweet singin' 
of red birds with seven purple tails, and the sighin' of 
breezes in the posies and roses. And the inhabitants never 


Ill 


A Double-Dyed Deceiver 

work, for they can reach out and pick steamer baskets of the 
choicest hothouse fruit without gettin’ out of bed. And there’s 
no Sunday and no ice and no rent and no troubles and no use 
and no nothin’. It’s a great country for a man to go to sleep 
with, and wait for somethin’ to turn up. The bananys and 
oranges and hurricanes and pineapples that ye eat comes from 
there.” 

“That sounds to me!” said the Kid, at last betraying in- 
terest. “What’ll the expressage be to take me out there with 
you?” 

“Twenty-four dollars,” said Captain Boone; “grub and 
transportation. Second cabin. I haven’t got a first cabin.” 

“You’ve got my company,” said the Kid, pulling out a 
buckskin bag. 

With three hundred dollars he had gone to Laredo for his 
regular “blowout.” The duel in Valdos’s had cut short his 
season of hilarity, but it had left him with nearly $200 for 
aid in the fight that it had made necessary. 

“All right, buddy,” said the captain. “I hope your ma 
won’t blame me for this little childish escapade of yours.” 
He beckoned to one of the boat’s crew. “Let Sanchez lift 
you out to the skiff so you won’t get your feet wet.” 

Thacker, the United States consul at Buenas Tierras, was no^ 
yet drunk. It was only eleven o’clock; and he never arrived 
at his desired state of beatitude — a state where he sang 
ancient maudlin vaudeville songs and pelted his screaming 
parrot with banana peels — until the middle of the afternoon. 
So, when he looked up from his hammock at the sound of a 
slight cough, and saw the Kid standing in the door of the 
consulate, he was still in a condition to extend the hospitality 
and courtesy due from the representative of a great nation. 
“Don’t disturb yourself,” said the Kid easily. “I just 
dropped in. They told me it was customary to light at your 


112 


Roads of Destiny 

camp before starting in to round up the town. I just came 
in on a ship from Texas.” 

“Glad to see you, Mr. ,” said the consul. 

The Kid laughed. 

“Sprague Dalton,” he said. “It sounds funny to me to 
hear it. I'm called the Llano Kid in the Rio Grande country.” 

“I’m Thacker,” salid the consul. “Take that cane-bottom 
chair. Now if you’ve come to invest, you want somebody to 
advise you. These dingies will cheat you out of the gold in 
your teeth if you don’t understand their ways. Try a cigar?” 

“Much obliged,” said the Kid, “but if it wasn’t for my 
corn shucks and the little bag in my back pocket I couldn’t 
live a minute.” He took out his “makings,” and rolled a 
cigarette. 

“They speak Spanish here,” said the consul. “You’ll need 
an interpreter. If there’s anything I can do, why, I’d be 
delighted. If you’re buying fruit lands or looking for a 
concession of any sort, you’ll want somebody who knows the 
ropes to look out for you.” 

“I speak Spanish,” said the Kid, “about nine times better 
than I do English. Everybody speaks it on the range where 
I come from. And I’m not in the market for anything.” 

“You speak Spanish?” said Thacker thoughtfully. He 
regarded the Kid absorbedly. 

“You look like a Spaniard, too,” he continued. “And 
you’re from Texas. And you can’t be more than twenty oi 
twenty-one. I wonder if you’ve got any nerve.” 

“You got a deal of some kind to put through?” asked the 
Texan, with unexpected shrewdness. 

“Are you open to a proposition?” said Thacker. 

“What’s the use to deny it?” said the Kid. “I got into 
a little gun frolic down in Laredo and plugged a white man. 
There wasn’t any Mexican handy. And I come down to your 


A Double-Dyed Deceiver 118 

parrot-and-monkey range just for to smell the morning-glories 
and marigolds. Now, do you sabe?” 

Thacker got up and closed the door. 

“Let me see your hand,” he said. 

He took the Kid’s left hand, and examined the back of it 
closely. 

“I can do it,” he said excitedly. “Your flesh is as hard 
as wood and as healthy as a baby’s. It will heal in a week.” 

“If it’s a fist fight you want to back me for,” said the Kid, 
“don’t put your money up yet. Make it gun work, and I’ll 
keep you company. But no barehanded scrapping, like ladies 
at a tea-party, for me.” 

“It’s easier than that,” said Thacker. “Just step here, 
will you?” 

Through the window he pointed to a two-story white-stuccoed 
house with wide galleries rising amid the deep-green tropica? 
foliage on a wooded hill that sloped gently from the sea. 

“In that house,” said Thacker, “a fine old Castilian gentle' 
man and his wife are yearning to gather you into their arms 
and fill your pockets with money. Old Santos Urique lives 
there. He owns half the gold-mines in the country.” 

“You haven’t been eating loco weed, have you?” asked the 

Kid. 

“Sit down again,” said Thacker, “and I’ll tell you. 
Twelve years ago they lost a kid. No, he didn’t die — al- 
though most of ’em here do from drinking the surface water. 
He was a wild little devil, even if he wasn’t but eight years 
old. Everybody knows about it. Some Americans who were 
through here prospecting for gold had letters to Senor Urique, 
and the boy was a favourite with them. They filled his head 
with big stories about the States ; and about a month after they 
left, the kid disappeared, too. He was supposed to have 
stowed himself away among the banana bunches on a fruit 


114 


Roads of Destiny 

steamer, and gone to New Orleans. He was seen once after- 
ward in Texas, it was thought, but they never heard anything 
more of him. Old Urique has spent thousands of dollars hav- 
ing him looked for. The madam was broken up worst of all. 
The kid was her life. She wears mourning yet. But they say 
she believes he’ll come back to her some day, and never gives 
up hope. On the back of the boy’s left hand was tattooed 
a flying eagle carrying a spear in his claws. That’s old 
Urique’s coat of arms or something that he inherited in Spain.” 

The Kid raised his left hand slowly and gazed at it 
curiously. 

“That’s it,” said Thacker, reaching behind the official desk 
for his bottle of smuggled brandy. “You’re not so slow. I 
can do it. What was I consul at Sandakan for? I never 
knew till now. In a week I’ll have the eagle bird with the 
frog-sticker blended in so you’d think you were born with it. 
I brought a set of the needles and ink just because I was sure 
you’d drop in some day, Mr. Dalton.” 

“Oh, hell,” said the Kid. “I thought I told you my 
name !” 

“All right, ‘Kid/ then. It won’t be that long. How does 
Senorito Urique sound, for a change?” 

“I never played son any that I remember of,” said the 
Kid. “If I had any parents to mention they went over the 
divide about the time I gave my first bleat. What is the plan 
of your round-up?” 

Thacker leaned back against the wall and held his glass 
up to the light. 

“We’ve come now,” said he, “to the question of how far 
you’re willing to go in a little matter of the sort.” 

“I told you why I came down here,” said the Kid simply. 

“A good answer,” said the consul. “But you won’t have 
to go that far. Here’s the scheme. After I get the trade- 
mark tattooed on your hand I’ll notify old Urique. In the 


115 


A Double-Dyed Deceiver 

meantime I’ll furnish you with all of the family history I can 
find out, so you can be studying up points to talk about. 
You've got the looks, you speak the Spanish, you know the 
facts, you can tell about Texas, you’ve got the tattoo mark. 
When I notify them that the rightful heir has returned and is 
waiting to know whether he will be received and pardoned, 
what will happen? They’ll simply rush down here and fall 
on your neck, and the curtain goes down for refreshments and 
a stroll in the lobby.” 

“I’m waiting,” said the Kid. “I haven’t had my saddle off 
in your camp long, pardner, and I never met you before; but 
if you intend to let it go at a parental blessing, why, I’m mis- 
taken in my man, that’s all.” 

“Thanks,” said the consul. “I haven’t met anybody in a 
long time that keeps up with an argument as well as you do. 
The rest of it is simple. If they take you in only for a while 
it’s long enough. Don’t give ’em time to hunt up the straw- 
berry mark on your left shoulder. Old Urique keeps any- 
where from $50,000 to $100,000 in his house all the time in a 
little safe that you could open with a shoe buttoner. Get it. 
My skill as a tattooer is worth half the boodle. We go halves 
and catch a tramp steamer for Rio Janeiro. Let the United 
States go to pieces if it can’t get along without my services. 
Que dice , senorV 9 

“It sounds to me!” said the Kid, nodding his head. “I’m 
out for the dust.” 

“All right, then,” said Thacker. “You’ll have to keep 
close until we get the bird on you. You can live in the back 
room here. I do my own cooking, and I’ll make you as com- 
fortable as a parsimonious Government will allow me.” 

Thacker had set the time at a week, but it was two weeks 
before the design that he patiently tattooed upon the Kid’s 
hand was to his notion. And then Thacker called a i ruchacho, 
and dispatched this note to the intended victim; 


116 


Roads of Destiny 

El Senor Don Santos Uriqtte, 

La Casa Blanca, 

My Dear Sir: 

I beg permission to inform you that there is in my house as a 
temporary guest a young man who arrived in Buenas Tierras from 
the United States some days ago. Without wishing to excite any 
hopes that may not he realized, I think there is a possibility of his 
being your long-absent son. It might be well for you to call and 
see him. If he is, it is my opinion that his intention was to return 
to his home, but upon arriving here, his courage failed him from 
doubts as to how he would be received. Your true servant, 

Thompson Thacker. 

Half an hour afterward — quick time for Buenas Tierras 
— Senor Urique’s ancient landau drove to the consul’s door, 
with the barefooted coachman beating and shouting at the 
team of fat, awkward horses. 

A tall man with a white moustache alighted, and assisted to 
the ground a lady who was dressed and veiled in unrelieved 
black. 

The two hastened inside, and were met by Thacker with his 
best diplomatic bow. By his desk stood a slender young man 
with clear-cut, sunbrowned features and smoothly brushed 
black hair. 

Seiiora Urique threw back her heavy veil with s * ] ss- 
ture. She was past middle age, and her hair wa % 

to silver, but her full, proud figure and clear olive sk ^ tl 4 
traces of the beauty peculiar to the Basque province, x, , 
once you had seen her eyes, and comprehended the great sad- 
ness that was revealed in their deep shadows and hopeless ex- 
pression, you saw that the woman lived only in some memory. 

She bent upon the young man a long look of the most agon- 
ized questioning. Then her great black eyes turned, and her 
gaze rested upon his left hand. And then with a sob, not 
loud, but seeming to shake the room, she cried “Hijo miol” 
and caught the Llano Kid to her heart. 


A Double-Dyed Deceiver 117j 

A month afterward the Kid came to the consulate in re- 
sponse to a message sent by Thacker. 

He looked the young Spanish Caballero, His clothes were 
imported, and the wiles of the jewellers had not been spent 
upon him in vain. A more than respectable diamond shone on 
his finger as he rolled a shuck cigarette. 

“What’s doing?” asked Thacker. 

“Nothing much,” said the Kid calmly. “I eat my first 
iguana steak to-day. They’re them big lizards, you sabe? I 
reckon, though, that frijoles and side bacon would do me 
about as well. Do you care for iguanas, Thacker?” 

“No, nor for some other kinds of reptiles,” said Thacker. 

It was three in the afternoon, and in another iiour he would 
be in his state of beatitude. 

“It’s time you were making good, sonny,” he went on, with 
an ugly look on his reddened face. “You’re not playing up 
to me square. You’ve been the prodigal son for four weeks 
now, and you could have had veal for every meal on a gold 
dish if you’d wanted it. Now, Mr. Kid, do you think it’s 
right to leave me out so long on a husk diet? What’s the 
trouble? Don’t you get your filial eyes on anything that 
looks like cash in the Casa Blanca? Don’t tell me you don’t. 

knows where old Urique keeps his stuff. It’s U. S. 
oo; he don’t accept anything else. Wliat’s doing? 
.j 'nothing’ this time.” 

“Why, sure,” said the Kid, admiring his diamond, “there’s 
plenty of money up there. I’m no judge of collateral in 
bunches, but I will undertake for to say that I’ve seen the 
rise of $50,000 at a time in that tin grub box that my adopted 
father calls his safe. And he lets me carry the key sometimes 
just to show me that he knows I’m the real little Francisco 
that strayed from the herd a long time ago.” 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked Thacker angrily. 
“Don’t you forget that I can upset your apple-cart any day 


118 


Roads of Destiny 

I want to. If old Urique knew you were an impostor, what 
sort of things would happen to you ? Oh, you don't know this 
country, Mr. Texas Kid. The laws here have got mustard 
spread between 'em. These people here’d stretch you out like 
a frog that had been stepped on, and give you about fifty sticks 
at every corner of the plaza. And they'd wear every stick 
out, too. What was left of you they’d feed to alligators." 

“I might as well tell you now, pardner," said the Kid, 
sliding down low on his steamer chair, “that things are going 
to stay just as they are. They're about right now." 

“What do you mean?" asked Thacker, rattling the bottom 
of his glass on his desk. 

“The scheme's off," said the Kid. “And whenever you 
have the pleasure of speaking to me address me as Don Fran- 
cisco Urique. I'll guarantee I'll answer to it. We'll let Col- 
onel Urique keep his money. His little tin safe is as good 
as the time-locker in the First National Bank o! Larede a? far 
as you and me are concerned." 

“You're going to throw me down, then, are you?" said the 
consul. 

“Sure," said the Kid cheerfully. “Throw you down. 
That's it. And now I'll tell you why. The first night I was 
up at the colonel's house they introduced me to a bedroo-i. 
No blankets on the floor — a real room, with a bed and c 
in it. And before I was asleep, in comes this artificial mo 
of mine and tucks in the covers. Tanchito,' she says, ‘m ; 
little lost one, God has brought you back to me. I bless His 
name forever.' It was that, or some truck like that, she said. 
And down comes a drop or two of rain and hits me on the 
nose. And all that stuck by me, Mr. Thacker. And it's been 
that way ever since. And it's got to stay that way. Don't 
you think that it's for what's in it for me, either, that I say so. 
If you have any such ideas? keep 'em to yourself. I haven't 
had much truck with women in my life, and no mothers to speak 


119 


A Double-Dyed Deceiver 

of , but here’s a lady that we’ve got to keep fooled. Once she 
stood it; twice she won’t. I’m a low-down wolf, and the devil 
may have sent me on this trail instead of God, but I’ll travel 
it to the end. And now, don’t forget that I’m Don Francisco 
Urique whenever you happen to mention my name.” 

“I’ll expose you to-day, you — you double-dyed traitor,” 
stammered Thacker. 

The Kid arose and, without violence, took Thacker by the 
throat with a hand of steel, and shoved him slowly into a 
corner. Then he drew from under his left arm his pearl- 
handled .45 and poked the cold muzzle of it against the con- 
sul’s mouth. 

“I told you why I come here,” he said, with his old freezing 
smile. “If I leave here, you’ll be the reason. Never forget 
it, pardner. Now, what is my name?” 

“Er — Don Francisco Urique,” gasped Thacker. 

From outside came a sound of wheels, and the shouting of 
some one, and the sharp thwacks of a wooden whipstock upon 
the backs of fat horses. 

The Kid put up his gun, and walked toward the door. But 
he turned again and came back to the trembling Thacker, and 
held up his left hand with its back toward the consul. 

“There’s one more reason,” he said slowly, “why things 
have got to stand as they are. The fellow I killed in Laredo 
had one of them same pictures on his left hand.” 

Outside, the ancient landau of Don Santos Urique rattled 
to the door. The coachman ceased his bellowing. Senora 
Urique, in a voluminous gay gown of white lace and flying 
ribbons, leaned forward with a happy look in her great soft 
eyes. 

“Are you within, dear son?” she called, in the rippling 
Castilian. 

“Maidre mia, yo vengo [mother, I come],” answered the 
young Don Francisco Urique. 


IX 


THE PASSING OF BLACK EAGLE 

F OR some months of a certain year a grim bandit infested 
the Texas border along the Rio Grande. Peculiarly striking 
to the optic nerve was this notorious marauder. His person- 
ality secured him the title of “Black Eagle, the Terror of the 
Border.” Many fearsome tales are of record concerning the 
doings of him and his followers. Suddenly, in the space of a 
single minute. Black Eagle vanished from earth. He was 
never heard of again. His own band never even guessed the 
mystery of his disappearance. The border ranches and set- 
tlements feared he would come again to ride and ravage the 
mesquite flats. He never will. It is to disclose the fate of 
Black Eagle that this narrative is written. 

The initial movement of the story is furnished by the foot 
of a bartender in St. Louis. His discerning eye fell upon 
the form of Chicken Ruggles as he pecked with avidity at the 
free lunch. Chicken was a “hobo.” He had a long nose 
like the bill of a fowl, an inordinate appetite for poultry, and 
a habit of gratifying it without expense, which accounts for 
the name given him by his fellow vagrants. 

Physicians agree that the partaking of liquids at meal times 
is not a healthy practice. The hygiene of the saloon pro- 
mulgates the opposite. Chicken had neglected to purchase a 
drink to accompany his meal. The bartender rounded the 
counter, caught the injudicious diner by the ear with a lemon 
squeezer, led him to the door and kicked him into the street. 

Thus the mind of Chicken was brought to realize the signs 

120 


121 


The Passing of Black Eagle 

of coming winter. The night was cold; the stars shone with 
unkindly brilliancy; people were hurrying along the streets 
in two egotistic, jostling streams. Men had donned their 
overcoats, and Chicken knew to an exact percentage the in- 
creased difficulty of coaxing dimes from those buttoned-in 
vest pockets. The time had come for his annual exodus to the 
south. 

A little boy, five or six years old, stood looking with covet- 
ous eyes in a confectioner’s window. In one small hand he 
held an empty two-ounce vial; in the other he grasped tightly 
something flat and round, with a shining milled edge. The 
scene presented a field of operations commensurate to Chick- 
en’s talents and daring. After sweeping the horizon to make 
sure that no official tug was cruising near, he insidiously ac- 
costed his prey. The boy, having been earty taught by his 
household to regard altruistic advances with extreme suspicion, 
received the overtures coldly. 

Then Chicken knew that he must make one of those des- 
perate, nerve-shattering plunges into speculation that fortune 
sometimes requires of those who would win her favour. Five 
cents was his capital, and this he must risk against the chance 
of winning what lay within the close grasp of the youngster’s 
chubby hand. It was a fearful lottery, Chicken knew. But 
he must accomplish his end by strategy, since he had a whole- 
some terror of plundering infants by force. Once, in a park, 
driven by hunger, he had committed an onslaught upon a bot- 
tle of peptonized infant’s food in the possession of an occu- 
pant of a baby carriage. The outraged infant had so 
promptly opened its mouth and pressed the button that com- 
municated with the welkin that help arrived, and Chicken did 
his thirty days in a snug coop. Wherefore lie was, as he said, 
“leary of kids.” 

Beginning artfully to question the boy concerning his 
choice of sweets, he gradually drew out the information he 


122 


Roads of Destiny 

wanted. Mamma said he was to ask the drug store man for 
ten cents' worth of paregoric in the bottle; he was to keep 
his hand shut tight over the dollar; he must not stop to talk 
to anyone in the street; he must ask the drug-store man to 
wrap up the change and put it in the pocket of his trousers. 
Indeed, they had pockets — two of them ! And he liked 
chocolate creams best. 

Chicken went into the store and turned plunger. He in- 
vested his entire capital in C. A. N. D. Y. stocks, simply to 
pave the way to the greater risk following. 

He gave the sweets to the youngster, and had the satisfac- 
tion of perceiving that confidence was established. After that 
it was easy to obtain leadership of the expedition, to take the 
investment by the hand and lead it to a nice drug store he 
knew of in the same block. There Chicken, with a parental 
air, passed over the dollar and called for the medicine, while 
the boy crunched his candy, glad to be relieved of the re- 
sponsibilty of the purchase. And then the successful in- 
vestor, searching his pockets, found an overcoat button — the 
extent of his winter trousseau — and, wrapping it carefully; 
placed the ostensible change in the pocket of confiding juve- 
nility. Setting the youngster's face homeward, and patting 
him benevolently on the back — for Chicken's heart was as 
soft as those of his feathered namesakes — the speculator quit 
the market with a profit of 1,700 per cent, on his invested 
capital. 

Two hours later an Iron Mountain freight engine pulled 
out of the railroad yards, Texas bound, with a string of emp- 
ties. In one of the cattle cars, half buried in excelsior, 
Chicken lay at ease. Beside him in his nest was a quart bot- 
tle of very poor whisky and a paper bag of bread and cheese. 
Mr. Ruggles, in his private car, was on /lis trip south for the 
winter season. 

For a w r eek that car was trundled southward, shifted, laid 


123 


The Passing of Black 'Eagle 

over, and manipulated after the manner of rolling stock, but 
Chicken stuck to it, leaving it only at necessary times to sat- 
isfy his hunger and thirst. He knew it must go down to the 
cattle country, and San Antonio, in the heart of it, was his 
goal. There the air was salubrious and mild; the people in- 
dulgent and long-suffering. The bartenders there would not 
kick him. If he should eat too long or too often at one place 
they would swear at him as if by rote and without heat. They 
swore so drawlingly, and they rarely paused short of their 
full vocabulary, which was copious, so that Chicken had often 
gulped a good meal during the process of the vituperative 
prohibition. The season there was always spring-like; the 
plazas were pleasant at night, with music and gayety; except 
during the slight and infrequent cold snaps one could sleep 
comfortably out of doors in case the interiors should develop 
inhospitality. 

At Texarkana his car was switched to the I. and G. N. 
Then still southward it trailed until, at length, it crawled 
across the Colorado bridge at Austin, and lined out, straight 
as an arrow, for the run to San Antonio. 

When the freight halted at that town Chicken was fast 
asleep. In ten minutes the train was off again for Laredo, 
the end of the road. Those empty cattle cars were for dis- 
tribution along the line at points from which the ranches 
shipped their stock. 

When Chicken awoke his car was stationary. Looking out 
between the slats he saw it was a bright, moonlit night. 
Scrambling out, he saw his car with three others abandoned 
on a little siding in a wild and lonesome country. A cattle 
pen and chute stood on one side of the track. The railroad 
bisected a vast, dim ocean of prairie, in the midst of which 
Chicken, with his futile rolling stock, was as completely 
stranded as was Robinson with his land-locked boat. 

A white post stood near the rails. Going up to it, Chicken 


124 


Roads of Destiny 

read the letters at the top, S. A. 90. Laredo was nearly as 
far to the south. He was almost a hundred miles from any 
town. Coyotes began to yelp in the mysterious sea around 
him. Chicken felt lonesome. He had lived in Boston with- 
out an education, in Chicago without nerve*, in Philadelphia 
without a sleeping place, in New York without a pull, and in 
Pittsburg sober, and yet he had never felt so lonely as now. 

Suddenly through the intense silence, he heard the whicker 
of a horse. The sound came from the side of the track to-' 
ward the east, and Chicken began to explore timorously in 
that direction. He stepped high along the mat of curly 
mesquit grass, for he was afraid of everything there might 
be in this wilderness — snakes, rats, brigands, centipedes, 
mirages, cowboys, fandangoes, tarantulas, tamales — he had 
read of them in the story papers. Rounding a clump of 
prickly pear that reared high its fantastic and menacing array 
of rounded heads, he was struck to shivering terror by a snort 
and a thunderous plunge, as the horse, himself startled, 
bounded away some fifty yards, and then resumed his graz- 
ing. But here was the one thing in the desert that Chicken 
did not fear. He had been reared on a farm ; he had handled 
horses, understood them, and could ride. 

Approaching slowly and speaking soothingly, he followed 
the animal, which, after its first flight, seemed gentle 
enough, and secured the end of the twenty-foot lariat that 
dragged after him in the grass. It required him but a few 
moments to contrive the rope into an ingenious nose-bridle, 
after the style of the Mexican borsal. In another he was 
upon the horse’s back and off at a splendid lope, giving the 
animal free choice of direction. “He will take me some- 
where,” said Chicken to himself. 

It would have been a thing of joy, that untrammelled gal- 
lop over the moonlit prairie, even to Chicken, who loathed 
exertion, but that his mood was not for it. His head ached; 


125 


The Passing of Black Eagle 

a growing thirst was upon him; the “somewhere” whither 
his lucky mount might convey him was full of dismal perad- 
venture. 

And now he noted that the horse moved to a definite goal. 
Where the prairie lay smooth he kept his course straight as an 
arrow's toward the east. Deflected by hill or arroyo or im- 
practicable spinous brakes, he quickly flowed again into the 
current, charted by his unerring instinct. At last, upon the 
^ide of a gentle rise, he suddenly subsided to a complacent 
walk. A stone's cast away stood a little mott of coma trees; 
beneath it a jacal such as the Mexicans erect — a one-room 
house of upright poles daubed with clay and roofed with 
grass or tule reeds. An experienced eye would have estimated 
the spot as the headquarters of a small sheep ranch. In the 
moonlight the ground in the nearby corral showed pulverized 
to a level smoothness by the hoofs of the sheep. Everywhere 
was carelessly distributed the paraphernalia of the place — ■ 
ropes, bridles, saddles, sheep pelts, wool sacks, feed troughs, 
and camp litter. The barrel of drinking water stood in the 
end of the two-horse wagon near the door. The harness was 
piled, promiscuous, upon the wagon tongue, soaking up the 
dew. 

Chicken slipped to earth, and tied the horse to a tree. He 
halloed again and again, but the house remained quiet. The 
door stood open, and he entered cautiously. The light was 
sufficient for him to see that no one was at home. He struck 
a match and lighted a lamp that stood on a table. The room 
was that of a bachelor ranchman who was content with the 
necessaries of life. Chicken rummaged intelligently until he 
found what he had hardly dared hope for — a small, brown 
that still contained something near a quart of his desire. 

Half an hour later, Chicken — now a gamecock of hostile 
aspect — emerged from the house with unsteady steps. He 
had drawn upon the absent ranchman's equipment to replace 


126 


Roads of Destiny 

his own ragged attire. He wore a suit of coarse brown 
ducking, the coat being a sort of rakish bolero, jaunty to a 
degree. Boots he had donned, and spurs that whirred with 
every lurching step. Buckled around him was a belt full of 
cartridges with a big six-shooter in each of its two holsters. 

Prowling about, he found blankets, a saddle and bridle 
with which he caparisoned his steed. Again mounting, he 
rode swiftly away, singing a loud and tuneless song. 

Bud King's band of desperadoes, outlaws and horse and 
cattle thieves were in camp at a secluded spot on the bank 
of the Frio. Their depredations in the Rio Grande coun- 
try, while no bolder than usual, had been advertised more 
extensively, and Captain Kinney's company of rangers had 
been ordered down to look after them. Consequently, Bud 
King, who was a wise general, instead of cutting out a hot 
trail for the upholders of the law, as his men wished to do, 
retired for the time to the prickly fastnesses of the Frio valley. 

Though the move was a prudent one, and not incompatible 
with Bud’s well-known courage, it raised dissension among 
the members of the band. In fact, while they thus lay in- 
gloriously perdu in the brush, the question of Bud King’s fit- 
ness for the leadership was argued, with closed doors, as it 
were, by his followers. Never before had Bud’s skill or 
efficiency been brought to criticism; but his glory was wan- 
ing (and such is glory’s fate) in the light of a newer star. 
The sentiment of the band was crystallizing into the opinion 
that Black Eagle could lead them with more lustre, profit, 
and distinction. 

This Black Eagle — sub-titled the “Terror of the Border" 
— had been a member of the gang about three months. 

One night while they were in camp on the San Miguel 
water-hole a solitary horseman on the regulation fiery steed 
dashed in among them. The newcomer was of a portentous 


* 5 “ 


The Passing of Black Eagle 127 

and devastating aspect. A beak-like nose with a predatory 
curve projected above a mass of bristling, blue-black whis* 
kers. His eye was cavernous and fierce. He was spurred, 
sombreroed, booted, garnished with revolvers, abundantly 
drunk, and very much unafraid. Few people in the country 
drained by the Rio Bravo would have cared thus to invade 
alone the camp of Bud King. But this fell bird swooped 
fearlessly upon them and demanded to be fed. 

Hospitality in the prairie country is not limited. Even if 
your enemy pass your way you must feed him before you shoot 
him. You must empty your larder into him before you empty 
your lead. So the stranger of undeclared intentions was set 
down to a mighty feast. 

A talkative bird he was, full of most marvellous loud tales 
and exploits, and speaking a language at times obscure but 
never colourless. He was a new sensation to Bud King’s men, 
who rarely encountered new types. They hung, delighted, 
upon his vainglorious boasting, the spicy strangeness of his 
lingo, his contemptuous familiarity with life, the world, and 
remote places, and the extravagant frankness with which he 
conveyed his sentiments. 

To their guest the band of outlaws seemed to be nothing 
more than a congregation of country bumpkins whom he was 
“stringing for grub” just as he would have told his stories 
at the back door of a farmhouse to wheedle a meal. And, 
indeed, his ignorance was not without excuse, for the “bad 
man” of the Southwest does not run to extremes. Those 
brigands might justly have been taken for a little party of 
peaceable rustics assembled for a fish-fry or pecan gather- 
ing. Gentle of manner, slouching of gait, soft-voiced, un- 
picturesquely clothed; not one of them presented to the eye 
any witness of the desperate records they had earned. 

For two days the glittering stranger within the camp was 
feasted. Then, by common consent, he was invited to become 


128 


Roads of Destiny 

a member of the band. He consented, presenting for en« 
rollment the prodigious name of “Captain Montressor.” This 
name was immediately overruled by the band, and “Piggy” 
substitued as a compliment to the awful and insatiate appe- 
tite of its owner. 

Thus did the Texas border receive the most spectacular 
brigand that ever rode its chaparral. 

For the next three months Bud King conducted business 
as usual, escaping encounters with law officers and being con- 
tent with reasonable profits. The band ran off some very 
good companies of horses from the ranges, and a few bunches 
of fine cattle which they got safely across the Rio Grande 
and disposed of to fair advantage. Often the band would 
ride into the little villages and Mexican settlements, terror- 
izing the inhabitants and plundering for the provisions and 
ammunition they needed. It was during these bloodless raids 
that Piggy’s ferocious aspect and frightful voice gained him 
a renown more widespread and glorious than those other gen- 
tle-voiced and sad-faced desperadoes could have acquired in 
a lifetime. 

The Mexicans, most apt in nomenclature, first called him 
The Black Eagle, and used to frighten the babes by threat- 
ening them with tales of the dreadful robber who carried off 
little children in his great beak. Soon the name extended, 
and Black Eagle, the Terror of the Border, became a recog- 
nized factor in exaggerated newspaper reports and ranch 
gossip. 

The country from the Nueces to the Rio Grande was a 
wild but fertile stretch, given over to the sheep and cattle 
ranches. Range was free; the inhabitants were few; the law 
was mainly a letter, and the pirates met with little opposition 
until the flaunting and garish Piggy gave the band undue 
advertisement. Then McKinney's ranger company headed 
for those precincts^ and Bud King knew that it meant grim 


129 


The Passing of Black Eagle 

and sudden war or else temporary retirement. Regarding the 
risk to be unnecessary, he drew off his band to an almost 
inaccessible spot on the bank of the Frio. Wherefore, as has 
been said, dissatisfaction arose among the members, and im- 
peachment proceedings against Bud were premeditated, with 
Black Eagle in high favour for the succession, Bud King 
was not unaware of the sentiment, and he called aside Cactus 
Taylor, his trusted lieutenant, to discuss it. 

“If the boys,” said Bud, “ain't satisfied with me, I'm 
willin' to step out. They're buckin’ against my way of 
handlin' 'em. And 'specially because I concludes to hit the 
brush while Sam Kinney is ridin' the line. I saves 'em from 
bein' shot or sent up on a state contract, and they up and says 
I’m no good.” 

“It ain't so much that,” explained Cactus, “as it is they’re 
plum locoed about Piggy. They want them whiskers and 
that nose of his to split the wind at the head of the column.” 

“There's somethin' mighty seldom about Piggy/’ declared 
Bud, musingly. “I never yet see anything on the hoof that 
he exactly grades up with. He can shore holler a plenty, 
and he straddles a hoss from where you laid the chunk. But 
he ain't never been smoked yet. You know, Cactus, we ain't 
had a row since he's been with us. Piggy's all right for 
skearin' the greaser kids and layin' waste a cross-roads store. 
I reckon he’s the finest canned oyster buccaneer and cheese 
pirate that ever was, but how's his appetite for figlitin'? I've 
knowed some citizens you'd think was starvin' for trouble 
get a bad case of dyspepsy the first dose of lead they had 
to take.” 

“He talks all spraddled out,” said Cactus. “ 'bout the 
rookuses lie’s been in. He claims to have saw the elephant 
and hearn the owl.” 

“I know,” replied Bud, using the cowpuncher's expressive 
phrase of skepticism, “but it sounds to me!” 


130 


Roads of Destiny 

This conversation was held one night in camp while thS 
other members of the band — eight in number — were sprawl- 
ing around the fire, lingering over their supper. When Bud 
and Cactus ceased talking they heard Piggy's formidable 
voice holding forth to the others as usual while he was engaged 
in checking, though never satisfying, his ravening appetite. 

“Wat’s de use,” he was saying, “of chasin’ little red 
cowses and hosses ’round for t’ousands of miles? Dere ain’t 
nuttin’ in it. Gallopin’ t’rough dese bushes and briers, and 
gettin’ a t’irst dat a brewery couldn’t put out, and missin* 
meals! Say! You know what I’d do if I was main finger 
of dis bunch? I’d stick up a train. I’d blow de express car 
and make hard dollars where you guys gets wind. Youse 
makes me tired. Dis sook-cow kind of cheap sport gives me 
d pain.” 

Later on, a deputation waited on Bud. They stood on one 
leg, chewed mesquit twigs and circumlocuted, for they hated 
to hurt his feelings. Bud foresaw their business, and made 
it easy for them. Bigger risks and larger profits was what 
they wanted. 

The suggestion of Piggy’s about holding up a train had 
fired their imagination and increased their admiration for the 
dash and boldness of the instigator. They were such simple, 
artless, and custom-bound bush-rangers that they had never 
before thought of extending their habits beyond the running 
off of live-stock and the shooting of such of their acquaint- 
ances as ventured to interfere. 

Bud acted “on the level,” agreeing to take a subordinate 
place in the gang until Black Eagle should have been given 
a trial as leader. 

After a great deal of consultation, studying of time-tables* 
and discussion of the country’s topography, the time and place 
for carrying out their new enterprise was decided upon. At 
that time there was a feedstuff famine in Mexico and a cattle 


131 


The Passing of Black Eagle 

famine in certain parts of the United States, and there was a 
brisk international trade. Much money was being shipped 
along the railroads that connected the two republics. It was 
agreed that the most promising place for the contemplated 
robbery was at Espina, a little station on the I. and G. N., 
about forty miles north of Laredo. The train stopped there 
one minute; the country around was wild and unsettled; the 
station consisted of but one house in which the agent lived. 

Black Eagle’s band set out, riding by night. Arriving in 
the vicinity of Espina they rested their horses all day in a 
thicket a few miles distant. 

The train was due at Espina at 10.30 p.m. They could rob 
the train and be well over the Mexican border with their booty 
by daylight the next morning. 

To do Black Eagle justice, he exhibited no signs of flinch- 
ing from the responsible honours that had been conferred 
upon him. 

He assigned his men to their respective posts with dis- 
cretion, and coached them carefully as to their duties. On 
each side of the track four of the band were to lie concealed 
in the chaparral. Gotch-Ear Rodgers was to stick up the 
station agent. Bronco Charlie was to remain with the horses, 
holding them in readiness. At a spot where it was calculated 
the engine would be when the train stoped, Bud King was 
to lie hidden on one side, and Black Eagle himself on the 
other. The two would get the drop on the engineer and 
fireman, force them to descend and proceed to the rear. Then 
the express car would be looted, and the escape made. No 
one was to move until Black Eagle gave the signal by firing 
his revolver. The plan was perfect. 

At ten minutes to train time every man was at his post, 
effectually concealed by the thick chaparral that grew almost 
to the rails. The night was dark and lowering, with a fine 
drizzle falling from the flying gulf clouds. Black Eagle 


132 


Roads of Destiny 

crouched behind a bush within five yards of the track. Two 
six-shooters were belted around him. Occasionally he drew a 
large black bottle from his pocket and raised it to his mouth. 

A star appeared far down the track which soon waxed into 
the headlight of the approaching train. It came on with an 
increasing roar; the engine bore down upon the ambushing 
desperadoes with a glare and a shriek like some avenging 
monster come to deliver them to justice. Black Eagle flat- 
tened himself upon the ground. The engine, contrary to their 
calculations, instead of stopping between him and Bud King’s 
place of concealment, passed fully forty yards farther before 
it came to a stand. 

The bandit leader rose to his feet and peered around the 
bush. His men all lay quiet, awaiting the signal. Immedi- 
ately opposite Black Eagle was a thing that drew his atten- 
tion. Instead of being a regular passenger train it was a 
mixed one. Before him stood a box car, the door of which, 
by some means, had been left slightly open. Black Eagle 
went up to it and pushed the door farther open. An odour 
came forth — a damp, rancid, familiar, musty, intoxicating, 
beloved odour stirring strongly at old memories of happy 
days and travels. Black Eagle sniffed at the witching smell 
as the returned wanderer smells of the rose that twines his 
boyhood’s cottage home. Nostalgia seized him. He put his 
hand inside. Excelsior — dry, springy, curly, soft, enti- 
cing, covered the floor. Outside the drizzle had turned to a 
chilling rain. 

The train bell clanged. The bandit chief unbuckled his 
belt and cast it, with its revolvers, upon the ground. His 
spurs followed quickly, and his broad sombrero. Black 
Eagle was moulting. The train started with a rattling jerk. 
The ex-Terror of the Border scrambled into the box car and 
closed the door. Stretched luxuriously upon the excelsior, 
with the black bottle clasped closely to his breast, his eyes 


The Passing of BlacJe Eagle 133 

closed, and a foolish, happy smile upon his terrible features 
Chicken Ruggles started upon his return trip. 

Undisturbed, with the band of desperate bandits lying 
motionless, awaiting the signal to attack, the train pulled out 
from Espina. As its speed increased, and the black masses 
of chaparral went whizzing past on either side, the express 
messenger, lighting his pipe, looked through his window and 
remarked, feelingly: 

“What a jim-dandy place for a hold-up !” 


X 


A RETRIEVED REFORMATION 

A GUARD came to the prison shoe-shop, where Jimmy 
Valentine was assiduously stitching uppers, and escorted him 
to the front office. There the warden handed Jimmy his par- 
don. which had been signed that morning by the governor. 
Jimmy took it in a tired kind of way. He had served nearly 
ten months of a four-year sentence. He had expected to 
stay only about three months, at the longest. When a man 
with as many friends on the outside as Jimmy Valentine had 
is received in the “stir” it is hardly worth while to cut his 
hair. 

“Now, Valentine,” said the warden, “you'll go out in the 
morning. Brace up, and make a man of yourself. You're 
not a bad fellow at heart. Stop cracking safes, and live 
straight.” 

“Me?” said Jimmy, in surprise. “Why, I never cracked 
a safe in my life.” 

“Oh, no,” laughed the warden. “Of course not. Let'a 
see, now. How was it you happened to get sent up on that 
Springfield job? Was it because you wouldn't prove an 
alibi for fear of compromising somebody in extremely high- 
toned society? Or was it simply a case of a mean old jury 
that had it in for you? It's always one or the other with you 
innocent victims.” 

“Me?” said Jimmy, still blankly virtuous. “Why, war- 
den, I never was in Springfield in my life !” 

“Take him back, Cronin,” smiled the warden, “and fix 

134 


135 


A Retrieved Reformation 

him up with outgoing clothes. Unlock him at seven in the 
morning, and let him come to the bull-pen. Better think over 
my advice, Valentine.” 

At a quarter past seven on the next morning Jimmy stood 
in the warden’s outer office. He had on a suit of the villain- 
ously fitting, ready-made clothes and a pair of the stiff, 
squeaky shoes that the state furnishes to its discharged com- 
pulsory guests. 

The clerk handed him a railroad ticket and the five-dollar 
bill with which the law expected him to rehabilitate himself 
into good citizenship and prosperity. The warden gave him 
a cigar, and shook hands. Valentine, 9762, was chronicled 
on the books “Pardoned by Governor,” and Mr. James Val- 
entine walked out into the sunshine. 

Disregarding the song of the birds, the waving green trees, 
and the smell of the flowers, Jimmy headed straight for a 
restaurant. There he tasted the first sweet joys of liberty 
in the shape of a broiled chicken and a bottle of white wine 
— followed by a cigar a grade better than the one the war- 
den had given him. From there he proceeded leisurely to 
the depot. He tossed a quarter into the hat of a blind man 
sitting by the door, and boarded his train. Three hours set 
him down in a little town near the state line. He went to 
the cafe of one Mike Dolan and shook hands with Mike, who 
was alone behind the bar. 

“Sorry we couldn’t make it sooner, Jimmy, me boy,” said 
Mike. “But we had that protest from Springfield to buck 
against, and the governor nearly balked. Feeling all right?” 

“Fine,” said Jimmy. “Got my key?” 

He got his key and went up-stairs, unlocking the door of 
a room at the rear. Everything was just as he had left it. 
There on the floor was still Ben Price’s collar-button that had 
been torn from that eminent detective’s shirt-band when they 
had overpowered Jimmy to arrest him. 


136 


Roads of Destiny 

Pulling out from the wall a folding-bed, Jimmy slid back 
a panel in the wall and dragged out a dust-covered suit-case. 
He opened this and gazed fondly at the finest set of bur- 
glar’s tools in the East. It was a complete set, made of spe- 
cially tempered steel, the latest designs in drills, punches, 
braces and bits, jimmies, clamps, and augers, with two or 
three novelties, invented by Jimmy himself, in which he took 
pride. Over nine hundred dollars they had cost him to have 

made at , a place where they make such things for the 

profession. 

In half an hour Jimmy went down stairs and through the 
cafe. He was now dressed in tasteful and well-fitting 
clothes, and carried his dusted and cleaned suit-case in his 
hand. 

“Got anything on?” asked Mike Dolan, genially. 

“Me?” said Jimmy, in a puzzled tone. “I don’t under- 
stand. I’m representing the New York Amalgamated Short 
Snap Biscuit Cracker and Frazzled Wheat Company.” 

This statement delighted Mike to such an extent that Jimmy 
had to take a seltzer-and-milk on the spot. Fie never touched 
“hard” drinks. 

A week after the release of Valentine, 9762, there was a 
neat job of safe-burglary done in Richmond, Indiana, with 
no clue to the author. A scant eight hundred dollars was all 
that was secured. Two weeks after that a patented, im- 
proved, burglar-proof safe in Logansport was opened like 
a cheese to the tune of fifteen hundred dollars, currency; 
securities and silver untouched. That began to interest the 
rogue-catchers. Then an old-fashioned bank-safe in Jeffer- 
son City became active and threw out of its crater an erup- 
tion of bank-notes amounting to five thousand dollars. The 
losses were now high enough to bring the matter up into 
Ben Price’s class of work. By comparing notes, a remark- 
able similarity in the methods of the burglaries was noticed. 




A Retrieved Reformation 137 

Ben Price investigated the scenes of the robberies, and was 
heard to remark: 

“That’s Dandy Jim Valentine’s autograph. He’s resumed 
business. Look at that combination knob — jerked out as 
easy as pulling up a radish in wet weather. He's got the 
only clamps that can do it. And look how clean those 
tumblers were punched out! Jimmy never has to drill but 
one hole. Yes, I guess I want Mr. Valentine. He'll do his 
bit next time without any short-time or clemency foolish- 
ness. 0 

Ben Price knew Jimmy’s habits. He had learned them 
while working up the Springfield case. Long jumps, quick 
get-aw T ays, no confederates, and a taste for good society — 
these ways had helped Mr. Valentine to become noted as a 
successful dodger of retribution. It was given out that Ben 
Price had taken up the trail of the elusive cracksman, and 
other people with burglar-proof safes felt more at ease. 

One afternoon Jimmy Valentine and his suit-case climbed 
out of the mail-hack in Elmore, a little town five miles off 
the railroad down in the black-jack country of Arkansas. 
Jimmy, looking like an athletic young senior just home from 
college, went down the board side-walk toward the hotel. 

A young lady crossed the street, passed him at the corner 
and entered a door over which was the sign “The Elmore 
Bank.” Jimmy Valentine looked into her eyes, forgot wdiat 
he was, and became another man. She lowered her eyes and 
coloured slightly. Young men of Jimmy's style and looks 
were scarce in Elmore. 

Jimmy collared a boy that was loafing on the steps of the 
bank as if he were one of the stockholders, and began to 
ask him questions about the town, feeding him dimes at inter- 
vals. By and by the young lady came out, looking royally 
unconscious of the young man with the suit-case, and went 
her way. 


138 Roads of Destiny 

“Isn’t that young lady Miss Polly Simpson?” asked Jimmy, 
with specious guile. 

“Naw,” said the boy. “She’s Annabel Adams. Her pa 
owns this bank. What’d you come to Elmore for? Is that 
a gold watch-chain? I’m going to get a bulldog. Got any 
more dimes ?” 

Jimmy went to the Planters’ Hotel, registered as Ralph 
D. Spencer, and engaged a room. He leaned on the desk 
and declared his platform to the clerk. He said he had come 
to Elmore to look for a location to go into business. How 
was the shoe business, now, in the town? He had thought 
of the shoe business. Was there an opening? 

The clerk was impressed by the clothes and manner of 
Jimmy. He, himself, was something of a pattern of fash- 
ion to the thinly gilded youth of Elmore, but he now per- 
ceived his shortcomings. While trying to figure out Jimmy’s 
manner of tying his four-in-hand he cordially gave informa- 
tion. 

Yes, there ought to be a good opening in the shoe line. 
There wasn’t an exclusive shoe-store in the place. The dry- 
goods and general stores handled them. Business in all lines 
was fairly good. Hoped Mr. Spencer would decide to locate 
in Elmore. He would find it a pleasant town to live in, and 
the people very sociable. 

Mr. Spencer thought he would stop over in the town a 
few days and look over the situation. No, the clerk needn’t 
call the boy. He would carry up his suit-case, himself; it 
was rather heavy. 

Mr. Ralph Spencer, the phoenix that arose from Jimmy 
Valentine’s ashes — ashes left by the flame of a sudden and 
alterative attack of love — remained in Elmore, and pros- 
pered. He opened a shoe-store and secured a good run of 
trade. 

Socially he was also a success, and made many friends. 


139 


A Retrieved Reformation 

And he accomplished the wish of his heart. He met Miss 
Annabel Adams, and became more and more captivated by 
her charms. 

At the end of a year the situation of Mr. Ralph Spencer 
was this: he had won the respect of the community, his shoe- 
store was flourishing, and he and Annabel were engaged to 
be married in two weeks. Mr. Adams, the typical, plod- 
ding, country banker, approved of Spencer. Annabel’s pride 
in him almost equalled her affection. He was as much at 
home in the family of Mr. Adams and that of Annabel’s mar- 
ried sister as if he were already a member. 

One day Jimmy sat down in his room and wrote this let- 
ter, which he mailed to the safe address of one of his old 
friends in St. Louis: 

Dear Old Pal: 

I want you to be at Sullivan’s place, in Little Rock, next Wednes- 
day night, at nine o’clock. I want you to wind up some little mat- 
ters for me. And, also, I want to make you a present of my kit of 
tools. I know you’ll be glad to get them — you couldn’t duplicate 
the lot for a thousand dollars. Say, Billy, I’ve quit the old busi- 
ness — a year ago. I’ve got a nice store. I’m making an honest liv- 
ing, and I*m going to marry the finest girl on earth two weeks from 
now. It's the only life, Billy — the straight one. I wouldn’t touch 
a dollar of another man’s money now for a million. After I get 
married I’m going to sell out and go West, where there won’t be so 
much danger of having old scores brought up against me. I tell 
you, Billy, she’s an angel. She believes in me; and I wouldn’t do 
another crooked thing for the whole world. Be sure to be at Sully’s, 
for I must see you. I’ll bring along the tools with me. 

Your old friend, 

Jimmy. 

On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote this letter, Ben 
Price jogged unobtrusively into Elmore in a livery buggy. 
He lounged about town in his quiet way until he found out 
what he wanted to know. From the drug-store across the 


140 Roads of Destiny 

street from Spencer's shoe-store he got a good look at Ralph 
D. Spencer. 

"‘Going to marry the banker's daughter are you, Jimmy?" 
said Ben to himself, softly. “Well, I don’t know!" 

The next morning Jimmy took breakfast at the Adamses. 
He was going to Little Rock that day to order his wedding- 
suit and buy something nice for Annabel. That would be 
the first time he had left town since he came to Elmore. It 
had been more than a year now since those last professional 
“jobs," and he thought he could safely venture out. 

After breakfast quite a family party went downtown to- 
gether — Mr. Adams, Annabel, Jimmy, and Annabel’s mar- 
ried sister with her two little girls, aged five and nine. They 
came by the hotel where Jimmy still boarded, and he ran 
up to his room and brought along his suit-case. Then they 
went on to the bank. There stood Jimmy's horse and buggy 
and Dolph Gibson, who was going to drive him over to the 
railroad station. 

All went inside the high, carved oak railings into the bank- 
ing-room — Jimmy included, for Mr. Adams's future son- 
in-law was welcome anywhere. The clerks were pleased to 
be greeted by the good-looking, agreeable young man who 
was going to marry Miss Annabel. Jimmy set his suit-case 
down. Annabel, whose heart was bubbling with happiners 
and lively youth, put on Jimmy’s hat, and picked up the 
suit-case. “Wouldn’t I make a nice drummer?" said Anna- 
bel. “My! Ralph, how heavy it is? Feels like it was full 
of gold bricks." 

"‘Lot of nickel-plated shoe-horns in there," said Jimmy, 
coolly, “that I'm going to return. Thought I’d save ex- 
press charges by taking them up. I’m getting awfully eco- 
nomical." 

The Elmore Bank had just put in a new safe and vault. 
Mr. Adams was very proud of it, and insisted on an inspec- 


A Retrieved Reformation 141 

tion by every one. The vault was a small one, but it bad a 
new, patented door. It fastened with three solid steel bolts 
thrown simultaneously with a single handle, and had a time- 
lock. Mr. Adams beamingly explained its workings to Mr. 
Spencer, who showed a courteous but not too intelligent in- 
terest. The two children. May and Agatha, were delighted 
by the shining metal and funny clock and knobs. 

While they were thus engaged Ben Price sauntered in and 
leaned on his elbow, looking casually inside between the rail- 
ings. He told the teller that he didn’t want anything; he 
Was just waiting for a man he knew. 

Suddenly there was a scream or two from the women, and 
a commotion. Unperceived by the elders. May, the nine- 
year-old girl, in a spirit of play, had shut Agatha in the vault. 
She had then shot the bolts and turned the knob of the com- 
bination as she had seen Mr. Adams do. 

The old banker sprang to the handle and tugged at it for 
a moment. “The door can’t be opened,” he groaned. “The 
^lock hasn’t been wound nor the combination set.” 

Agatha’s mother screamed again, hysterically. 

“Hush !” said Mr. Adams, raising his trembling hand. “All 
be quiet for a moment. Agatha !” he called as loudly as he 
could. “Listen to me.” During the following silence they 
could just hear the faint sound of the child wildly shrieking in 
the dark vault in a panic of terror. 

“My precious darling!” wailed the mother. “She will die 
of fright! Open the door! Oh, break it open! Can’t you 
men do something?” 

“There isn’t a man nearer than Little Bock who can open 
that door,” said Mr. Adams, in a shaky voice. “My God ! 
Spencer, what shall we do? That child — she can’t stand 
it long in there. There isn’t enough air, and, besides, she’ll 
go into convulsions from fright.” 

Agatha’s mother, frantic now, beat the door of the vault 


142 


Roads of Destiny 

with her hands. Somebody wildly suggested dynamite. An- 
nabel turned to Jimmy, her large eyes full of anguish, but 
not yet despairing. To a woman nothing seems quite impos- 
sible to the powers of the man she worships. 

“Can’t you do something, Ralph — try , won’t you?” 

He looked at her with a queer, soft smile on his lips and 
in his keen eyes. 

“Annabel,” he said, “give me that rose you are wearing, 
will you?” 

Hardly believing that she heard him aright, she unpinned 
the bud from the bosom of her dress, and placed it in his 
hand. Jimmy stuffed it into his vest-pocket, threw off his 
coat and pulled up his shirt-sleeves. With that act Ralph 
D. Spencer passed away and Jimmy Valentine took his place. 

“Get away from the door, all of you,” he commanded, 
shortly. 

He set his suit-case on the table, and opened it out hat. 
From that time on he seemed to be unconscious of the pres- 
ence of any one else. Fie laid out the shining, queer imple- 
ments swiftly and orderly, whistling softly to himself as he 
always did when at work. In a deep silence and immovable, 
the others watched him as if under a spell. 

In a minute Jimmy’s pet drill was biting smoothly into the 
steel door. In ten minutes — breaking his own burglarious 
record — he threw back the bolts and opened the door. 

Agatha, almost collapsed, but safe, was gathered into her 
mother’s arms. 

Jimmy Valentine put on his coat, and walked outside the 
railings toward the front door. As he went he thought he 
heard a far-away voice that he once knew call “Ralph!” 
But he never hesitated. 

At the door a big man stood somewhat in his way. 

“Hello, Ben!” said Jimmy, still with his strange smile. 


A Retrieved Reformation 143 

“Got around at last, have you ? Well, let’s go. I don’t know 
that it makes much difference, now.” 

And then Ben Price acted rather strangely. 

“Guess you’re mistaken, Mr. Spencer,” he said. “Don’t 
believe I recognize you. Your buggy’s waiting for you, 
ain’t it?” 

And Ben Price turned and strolled down the street. 


XI 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 

Robbins, reporter for the Picayune, and Dumars, of 
L’Abeille — the old French newspaper that has buzzed for 
nearly a century — were good friends, well proven by years 
of ups and downs together. They were seated where they 
had a habit of meeting — in the little. Creole-haunted cafe 
of Madame Tibault, in Dumaine Street. If you know the 
place, you will experience a thrill of pleasure in recalling 
it to mind. It is small and dark, with six little polished 
tables, at which you may sit and drink the best coffee in 
New Orleans, and concoctions of absinthe equal to Sazerac’s 
best. Madame Tibault, fat and indulgent, presides at the 
desk, and takes your money. Nicolette and Meme, madame’s 
nieces, in charming bib aprons, bring the desirable beverages. 

Dumars, with true Creole luxury, was sipping his absinthe, 
with half-closed eyes, in a swirl of cigarette smoke. Rob- 
bins was looking over the morning Pic., detecting, as young 
reporters will, the gross blunders in the make-up, and the 
envious blue-pencilling his own stuff had received. This 
item, in the advertising columns, caught his eye, and with an 
exclamation of sudden interest he read it aloud to his friend. 

Public Auction'. — At three o’clock this afternoon there will be 
sold to the highest bidder all the common property of the Little Sis * 5 
ters of Samaria, at the home of the Sisterhood, in Bonhomme Street 
The sale will dispose of the building, ground, and the complete fu* r 
nishings of the house and chapel, without reserve. 

144 


Cherchez la Femme 


145 


This notice stirred the two friends to a reminiscent talk 
concerning an episode in their journalistic career that had 
occurred about two years before. They recalled the incidents, 
went over the old theories, and discussed it anew from the 
different perspective time had brought. 

There were no other customers in the cafe. Madame’s 
fine ear had caught the line of their talk, and she came over 
to their table — for had it not been her lost money — her 
vanished twenty thousand dollars — that had set the whole 
matter going? 

The three took up the long-abandonded mystery, threshing 
over the old, dry chaff of it. It was in the chapel of this 
house of the Little Sisters of Samaria that Robbins and Du- 
mars had stood during that eager, fruitless news search of 
theirs, and looked upon the gilded statue of the Virgin. 

“Thass so, boys,” said madame, summing up. “Tliasu 
ver' wicked man, M'sieur Morin. Everybody shall be cert' 
he steal those money I plaze in his hand for keep safe. Yes. 
He's boun' spend that money, somehow." Madame turned a 
broad and comprehensive smile upon Dumars. “1 ond’stand 
you, M'sieur Dumars, those day you come ask me fo’ tell 
ev'ything I know 'bout M'sieur Morin. Ah! yes, I know 
most time when those men lose money you say ‘Cherchez la 
femme * — there is somewhere the woman. But not for 
M’sieur Morin. No, boys. Before he shall die, he is like 
one saint. You might's well, M'sieur Dumars, go try find 
those money in those statue of Virgin Mary that M’sieur 
Morin present at those p’tite sceurs, as try find one femme ” 

At Madame Tibault's last words, Robbins started slightly 
and cast a keen, sidelong glance at Dumars. The Creole sat, 
unmoved, dreamily watching the spirals of his cigarette 
smoke. 

It was then nine o'clock in the morning and, a few minutes 
later, the two friends separated, going different ways to their 


146 


Roads of Destiny 

day's duties. And now follows the brief story of Madam© 
Tibault’s vanished thousands: 

New Orleans will readily recall to mind the circumstances 
attendant upon the death of Mr. Gaspard Morin, in that 
city. Mr. Morin was an artistic goldsmith and jeweller in 
the old French Quarter, and a man held in the highest esteem. 
He belonged to one of the oldest French families, and was 
of some distinction as an antiquary and historian. He was 
a bachelor, about fifty years of age. He lived in quiet com- 
fort, at one of those rare old hostelries in Royal Street. He 
was found in his rooms, one morning, dead from unknown 
causes. 

When his affairs came to be looked into, it was found that 
he was practically insolvent, his stock of goods and personal 
property barely — but nearly enough to free him from cen- 
sure — covering his liabilities. Following came the disclo- 
sure that he had been intrusted with the sum of twenty thou- 
sand dollars by a former upper servant in the Morin family, 
one Madame Tibault, which she had received as a legacy from 
relatives in France. 

The most searching scrutiny by friends and the legal au- 
thorities failed to reveal the disposition of the money. It 
had vanished, and left no trace. Some weeks before his 
death, Mr. Morin had drawn the entire amount, in gold coin, 
from the bank where it had been placed while he looked about 
(he told Madame Tibault) for a safe investment. There- 
fore, Mr. Morin’s memory seemed doomed to bear the cloud 
of dishonesty, while madame was, of course, disconsolate. 

Then it was that Robbins and Dumars, representing their 
respective journals, began one of those pertinacious private in- 
vestigations which, of late years, the press has adopted as a 
means to glory and the satisfaction of public curiosity. 

“ Cherchez la femme” said Dumars. 


Cherchez la Femme 147 

“That’s the ticket!” agreed Robbins. “All roads lead 
to the eternal feminine. We will find the woman.” 

They exhausted the knowledge of the staff of Mr. Morin’s 
hotel* from the bell-boy down to the proprietor. They gently, 
but inflexibly, pumped the family of the deceased as far as 
his cousins twice removed. They artfully sounded the em- 
ployees of the late jeweller, and dogged his customers for 
information concerning his habits. Like bloodhounds they 
traced every step of the supposed defaulter, as nearly as 
might be, for years along the limited and monotonous paths 
he had trodden. 

At the end of their labours, Mr. Morin stood, an immac- 
ulate man. Not one weakness that might be served up as a 
criminal tendency, not one deviation from the path of recti- 
tude, not even a hint of a predilection for the opposite sex, 
was found to be placed to his debit. His life had been as 
regular and austere as a monk’s ; his habits, simple and uncon- 
cealed. Generous, charitable, and a model in propriety, was 
the verdict of all who knew him. 

“What, now?” asked Robbins, fingering his empty note- 
book. 

“Cherchez la femme ” said Dumars, lighting a cigarette. 
“Try Lady Bellairs.” 

This piece of femininity was the race-track favourite of 
the season. Being feminine, she was erratic in her gaits, and 
there were a few heavy losers about town who had believed 
she could be true. The reporters applied for information. 

Mr. Morin? Certainly not. He was never even a specta- 
tor at the races. Not that kind of a man. Surprised the 
gentlemen should ask. 

“Shall we throw it up?” suggested Robbins, “and let the 
puzzle department have a try?” 

“Cherchez la femme/ 9 hummed Dumars, reaching for a 
match. “Try the Little Sisters of What-d’-you-call-’em.” 


148 • Iloads of Destiny 

It had developed^ during the investigation; that Mr. Morin 
had held this benevolent order in particular favour. He 
had contributed liberally toward its support and had chosen 
its chapel as his favourite place of private worship. It was 
said that he went there daily to make his devotions at the altar. 
Indeed; toward the last of his life his whole mind seemed to 
have fixed itself upon religious matters; perhaps to the detri- 
ment of his worldly affairs. 

Thither went Robbins and DumarS; and were admitted 
through the narrow doorway in the blank stone wall that 
frowned upon Bonhomme Street. An old woman was sweep- 
ing the chapel. She told them that Sister Felicite, the head 
of the order; was then at prayer at the altar in the alcove. 
In a few moments she would emerge. Heavy, black curtains 
screened the alcove. They waited. 

Soon the curtains were disturbed, and Sister Felicite came 
forth. She was tall, tragic, bony, and plain-featured, dressed 
in the black gown and severe bonnet of the sisterhood. 

Robbins, a good rough-and-tumble reporter, but lacking the 
delicate touch, began to speak. 

They represented the press. The lady had, no doubt, 
heard of the Morin affair. It was necessary, in justice to that 
gentleman’s memory, to probe the mystery of the lost money. 
It was known that he had come often to this chapel. Any in- 
formation, now, concerning Mr. Morin’s habits, tastes, the 
friends he had, and so on, would be of value in doing him 
posthumous justice. 

Sister Felicite had heard. Whatever she knew would be 
willingly told, but it was very little. Monsieur Morin had 
been a good friend to the order, sometimes contributing as 
much as a hundred dollars. The sisterhood was an independ- 
ent one, depending entirely upon private contributions for the 
means to carry on its charitable work. Mr. Morin had pre- 
sented the chapel with silver candlesticks and an altar cloth. 


CliercJiez la Femme 


149 


He came every day to worship in the chapel, sometimes re- 
maining for an hour. He was a devout Catholic, consecrated 
to holiness. Yes, and also in the alcove was a statue of the 
Virgin that he had himself modeled, cast, and presented to 
the order. Oh, it was cruel to cast a doubt upon so good 
a man ! 

Robbins was also profoundly grieved at the imputation. 
But, until it was found what Mr. Morin had done with Ma- 
dame Tibault’s money, he feared the tongue of slander would 
not be stilled. Sometimes — in fact, very often — in affairs 
of the kind there was — er — as the saying goes — er — a 
lady in the case. In absolute confidence, now — if — per- 
haps — 

Sister Felicite’s large eyes regarded him solemnly. 

“There was one woman,” she said, slowly, “to whom he 
bowed — to whom he gave his heart.” 

Robbins fumbled rapturously for his pencil. 

“Behold the woman!” said Sister Felicite, suddenly, in 
deep tones. 

She reached a long arm and swept aside the curtain of the 
alcove. In there was a shrine, lit to a glow of soft colour by 
the light pouring through a stained-glass window. Within a 
deep niche in the bare stone wall stood an image of the Vir- 
gin Mary, the colour of pure gold. 

D umars, a conventional Catholic, succumbed to the dra- 
matic in the act. He bowed his head for an instant and made 
the sign of the cross. The somewhat abashed Robbins, 
murmuring an indistinct apology, backed awkwardly away. 
Sister Felicite drew back the curtain, and the reporters de- 
parted. 

On the narrow stone sidewalk of Bonhomme Street, Rob~ 
bins turned to Dumars, with unworthy sarcasm. 

“Well, what next? Churchy law fern?” 

“Absinthe,” said Dumars- 


150 


Roads of Destiny 

With the history of the missing money thus partially re* 
lated, some conjecture may be formed of the sudden idea 
that Madame Tibault’s words seemed to have suggested to 
Robbins's brain. 

Was it so wild a surmise — that the religious fanatic had 
offered up his wealth — or, rather, Madame Tibault’s — in 
the shape of a material symbol of his consuming devotion? 
Stranger things have been done in the name of worship. Was 
it not possible that the lost thousands were molded into that 
lustrous image? That the goldsmith had formed it of the 
pure and precious metal, and set it there, through some hope 
of a perhaps disordered brain to propitiate the saints and 
pave the way to his own selfish glory? 

That afternoon, at five minutes to three, Robbins entered 
the chapel door of the Little Sisters of Samaria. He saw, 
in the dim light, a crowd of perhaps a hundred people gath- 
ered to attend the sale. Most of them were members of varh 
ous religious orders, priests and churchmen, come to pur 
chase the paraphernalia of the chapel, lest they fall into dese- 
crating hands. Others were business men and agents come 
to bid upon the realty. A clerical-looking brother had vol- 
unteered to wield the hammer, bringing to the office of auc 
tioneer the anomaly of choice diction and dignity of manner. 

A few of the minor articles were sold, and then two assist 
ants brought forward the image of the Virgin. 

Robbins started the bidding at ten dollars. A stout man, 
in an ecclesiastical garb, went to fifteen. A voice from an- 
other part of the crowd raised to twenty. The three bid 
alternately, raising by bids of five, until the offer was fifty 
dollars. Then the stout man dropped out, and Robbins, as a 
sort of coup de main , went to a hundred. 

“One hundred and fifty,” said the other voice. 

“Two hundred,” bid Robbins, boldly. 

“Two-fifty,” called his competitor, promptly. 


Cherchez la Femme 


151 


The reporter hesitated for the space of a lightning flash, 
estimating how much he could borrow from the boys in the 
office, and screw from the business manager from his next 
month's salary. 

“Three hundred," he offered. 

“Three-fifty," spoke up the other, in a louder voice — - a 
voice that sent Robbins diving suddenly through the crowd in 
its direction, to catch Dumars, its owner, ferociously by the 
collar. 

“You unconverted idiot!" hissed Robbins, close to his ear 
- — “pool !" 

“Agreed!" said Dumars, coolly. “I couldn't raise three 
hundred and fifty dollars with a search-warrant, but I can 
stand half. What you come bidding against me for?" 

“I thought I was the only fool in the crowd," explained 
Robbins. 

No one else bidding, the statue was knocked down to the 
syndicate at their last offer. Dumars remained with the 
prize, while Robbins hurried forth to wring from the re- 
sources and credit of both the price. He soon returned with 
the money, and the two musketeers loaded their precious 
package into a carriage and drove with it to Dumars's room, 
in old Chartres Street, nearby. They lugged it, covered with 
a cloth, up the stairs, and deposited it on a table. A hun- 
dred pounds it weighed, if an ounce, and at that estimate, ac- 
cording to their calculation, if their daring theory were cor- 
rect, it stood there, worth twenty thousand golden dollars. 

Robbins removed the covering, and opened his pocket- 
knife. 

“ Sacre !” muttered Dumars, shuddering. “It is the Mother 
of Christ. What would you do?" 

“Shut up, Judas !" said Robbins, coldly. “It's too late 
for you to be saved now." 

With a firm hand, he clipped a slice from the shoulder of 


152 Roads of Destiny 

the image. The cut showed a dull, grayish metal, with a thin 
coating of gold leaf. 

“Lead!” announced Robbins, hurling his knife to the floor 
—“gilded!” 

“To the devil with it!” said D umars, forgetting his scru- 
ples. “I must have a drink.” 

Together they walked moodily to the cafe of Madame Ti- 
bault, two squares away. 

It seemed that madame’s mind had been stirred that day 
to fresh recollections of the past services of the two young 
men in her behalf. 

“You mustn’t sit by those table,” she interposed, as they 
were about to drop into their accustomed seats. “Thass so, 
boys. But no. I mek you come at this room, like my tres 
bons amis. Yes. I goin’ mek for you myself one anisette 
and one cafe royale ver’ fine. Ah! I lak treat my fren’ nize* 
Yes. Plis come in this way.” 

Madame led them into the little back room, into which she 
sometimes invited the especially favoured of her customers. 
In two comfortable armchairs, by a big window that opened 
upon the courtyard, she placed them, with a low table be- 
tween. Bustling hospitably about, she began to prepare the 
promised refreshments. 

It was the first time the reporters had been honoured with 
admission to the sacred precincts. The room was in dusky 
twilight, flecked with gleams of the polished, fine woods and 
burnished glass and metal that the Creoles love. From the 
little courtyard a tiny fountain sent in an insinuating sound 
of trickling waters, to which a banana plant by the window 
kept time with its tremulous leaves. 

Robbins, an investigator by nature, sent a curious glance 
ifoving about the room. From some barbaric ancestor, ma- 
dame had inherited a penchant for the crude in decoration. 


153 


Cherchez la Femme 

The walls were adorned with cheap lithographs — florid 
libels upon nature, addressed to the taste of the bourgeoisie 
— birthday cards, garish newspaper supplements, and speci- 
mens of art-advertising calculated to reduce the optic nerve 
to stunned submission. A patch of something unintelligible 
in the midst of the more candid display puzzled Robbins, 
and he rose and took a step nearer, to interrogate it at closer 
range. Then he leaned weakly against the wall, and called 
out: 

“Madame Tibault! Oh, madame ! Since when — oh! 
since when have you been in the habit of papering your walls 
with five thousand dollar United States four per cent, gold 
bonds ? Tell me — is this a Grimm’s fairy tale, or should I 
consult an oculist?” 

At his words, Madame Tibault and Dumars approached. 

“H’what you say?” said madame, cheerily. “H’what you 
say, M’sieur Robbin’? Bon! Ah! those nize li’l peezes 
papier! One tarn I think those w’at you call calendair, wiz 
ze li’l day of mont’ below. But, no. Those wall is broke 
In those plaze, M’sieur Robbin’, and I plaze those li’l peezes 
papier to conceal ze crack. I did think the couleur harm’nize 
so well with the wall papier. Where I get them from? Ah, 
yes, I remem’ ver’ well. One day M’sieur Morin, he come 
at my house — thass ’bout one mont’ before he shall die — 
thass ’long ’bout tam he promise fo’ inves’ those money fo’ 
me. M’sieur Morin, he leave thoze li’l peezes papier in those 
table, and say ver’ much ’bout money thass hard for me to 
ond’stan. Mais I never see those money again. Thass ver 1 ' 
wicked man, M’sieur Morin. H’what you call those peezes 
papier, M’sieur Robbin’ — bon!” 

Robbins explained. 

“There’s your twenty thousand dollars, with coupons at- 
tached,” he said, running his thumb around the edge of the 


154 


Roads of Destiny 

four bonds. “Better get an expert to peel them off for you. 
Mister Morin was all right. I’m going out to get my ears 
trimmed.” 

He dragged Dumars by the arm into the outer room. Ma- 
dame was screaming for Nicolette and Meme to come and 
observe the fortune returned to her by M’sieur Morin, that 
best of men, that saint in glory. 

“Marsy,” said Robbins, “I’m going on a jamboree. For 
three days the esteemed Pic. will have to get along without 
my valuable services. I advise you to join me. Now, that 
green stuff you drink is no good. It stimulates thought. 
What we want to do is to forget to remember. I’ll intro* 
duce you to the only lady in this case that is guaranteed tc 
produce the desired results. Her name is Belle of Ken- 
tucky, twelve-year-old Bourbon. In quarts. How does tb r 
idea strike you?” 

“ Allons !” said Dumars. “ Cherchez la femme / 9 




XII 

FRIENDS IN SAN ROSARIO 

The west-bound stopped at San Rosario on time at 8.20 
a. m. A man with a thick black-leather wallet under his arm 
left the train and walked rapidly up the main street of the 
town. There were other passengers who also got off at San 
Rosario, but they either slouched limberly over to the rail- 
road eating-house or the Silver Dollar saloon, or joined the 
groups of idlers about the station. 

Indecision had no part in the movements of the man with 
the wallet. He was short in stature, but strongly built, with 
very light, closely-trimmed hair, smooth, determined face, and 
aggressive, gold-rimmed nose glasses. He was well dressed 
in the prevailing Eastern style. His air denoted a quiet but 
conscious reserve force, if not actual authority. 

After walking a distance of three squares he came to the 
centre of the town's business area. Here another street of 
importance crossed the main one, forming the hub of San 
Rosario's life and commerce. Upon one corner stood the 
post-office. Upon another Rubensky's Clothing Emporium. 
The other two diagonally opposing corners were occupied by 
the town's two banks, the First National and the Stockmen's 
National. Into the First National Bank of San Rosario the 
newcomer walked, never slowing his brisk step until he stood 
at the cashier's window. The bank opened for business at 
nine, and the working force was already assembled, each 
member preparing his department for the day's business. 
The cashier was examining the mail when he noticed the 
stranger standing at his window. 

165 


156 


Hoads of Destiny 

“Bank doesn’t open ’til nine/’ he remarked, curtly, but with- 
out feeling. He had had to make that statement so often to 
early birds since San Rosario adopted city banking hours. 

“I am well aware of that,” said the other man, in cool, brit- 
tle tones. “Will you kindly receive my card?” 

The cashier drew the small, spotless parallelogram inside 
the bars of his wicket, and read: 


J. F. C. NETTLEWICK 
National Bank Examiner 


“Oh — er — will you walk around inside, Mr. — er Net- 
tlewick. Your first visit — didn’t know your business, o£ 
course. Walk right around, please.” 

The examiner was quickly inside the sacred precincts o? 
the bank, where he was ponderously introduced to each em- 
ployee in turn by Mr. Edlinger, the cashier — a middle-aged 
gentleman of deliberation, discretion, and method. 

“I was kind of expecting Sam Turner round again, pretty 
soon,” said Mr. Edlinger. “Sam’s been examining us now, for 
about four years. I guess you’ll find us all right, though, 
considering the tightness in business. Not overly much 
money on hand, but able to stand the storms, sir, stand the 
storms.” 

“Mr. Turner and I have been ordered by the Comptroller 
to exchange districts,” said the examiner, in his decisive, for- 
mal tones. “He is covering my old territory in Southern 
Illinois and Indiana. I will take the cash first, please.” 

Perry Dorsey, the teller, was already arranging his cash on 
the counter for the examiner’s inspection. He knew it was 
right to a cent, and he had nothing to fear, but he was nerv- 
ous and flustered. So was every man in the bank There 


Friends in San Rosario 


157 


was something so icy and swift, so impersonal and uncom* 
promising about this man that his very presence seemed an 
accusation. He looked to be a man who would never make 
nor overlook an error. 

Mr. Nettlewick first seized the currency, and with a rapid, 
almost juggling motion, counted it by packages. Then he 
spun the sponge cup toward him and verified the count by 
bills. His thin, white fingers flew like some expert musi- 
cian's upon the keys of a piano. He dumped the gold upon 
the counter with a crash, and the coins whined and sang as 
they skimmed across the marble slab from the tips of his 
nimble digits. The air was full of fractional currency when 
he came to the halves and quarters. He counted the last 
nickel and dime. He had the scales brought, and he 
weighed every sack of silver in the vault. He questioned 
Dorsey concerning each of the cash memoranda — certain 
checks, charge slips, etc., carried over from the previous day's 
work — with unimpeachable courtesy, yet with something so 
mysteriously momentous in his frigid manner, that the teller 
was reduced to pink cheeks and a stammering tongue. 

This newly-imported examiner was so different from Sam 
Turner. It had been Sam's way to enter the bank with a 
shout, pass the cigars, and tell the latest stories he had picked 
up on his rounds. His customary greeting to Dorsey had 
been, “Hello, Perry ! Haven't skipped out with the boodle 
yet, I see." Turner's way of counting the cash had been 
different, too. He would finger the packages of bills in a 
tired kind of way, and then go into the vault and kick over 
a few sacks of silver, and the thing was done. Halves and 
quarters and dimes? Not for Sam Turner. “No chicken 
feed for me," he would say when they were set before him. 
“I'm not in the agricultural department." But, then, Turner 
was a Texan, an old friend of the bank's president, and had 
known Dorsey since he was a baby. 


158 


Roads of Destiny 

While the examiner was counting the cash, Major Thomas 
B. Kingman — known to every one as “Major Tom’' — the 
president of the First National, drove up to the side door 
with his old dun horse and buggy, and came inside. He saw 
the examiner busy with the money, and, going into the little 
“pony corral/ * as he called it, in which his desk was railed off, 
he began to look over his letters. 

Earlier, a little incident had occurred that even the sharp 
eyes of the examiner had failed to notice. When he had 
begun his work at the cash counter, Mr. Edlinger had winked 
significantly at Roy Wilson, the youthful bank messenger, 
and nodded his head slightly toward the front door. Roy 
understood, got his hat and walked leisurely out, with his 
collector’s book under his arm. Once outside, he made a bee- 
line for the Stockmen’s National. That bank was also get- 
ting ready to open. No customers had, as yet, presented 
themselves. 

“Say, you people!” cried Roy, with the familiarity of 
youth and long acquaintance, “you want to get a move on 
you. There’s a new bank examiner over at the First, and 
he’s a stem-winder. He’s counting nickels on Perry, and 
he’s got the whole outfit bluffed. Mr. Edlinger gave me the 
tip to let you know.” 

Mr. Buckley, president of the Stockmen’s National — a 
stout, elderly man, looking like a farmer dressed for Sun- 
day — heard Roy from his private office at the rear and called 
him. 

“Has Major Kingman come down to the bank yet?” he 
asked of the boy. 

“Yes, sir, he was just driving up as I left,” said Roy. 

“I want you to take him a note. Put it into his own hands 
as soon as you get back.” 

Mr. Buckley sat down and began to write. 

Roy returned and handed to Major Kingman the envelope 


Friends in San Rosario 


159 


containing the note. The major read it, folded it, and slipped 
it into his vest pocket. He leaned back in his chair for a 
few moments as if he were meditating deeply, and then rose 
and went into the vault. He came out with the bulky, old- 
fashioned leather note case stamped on the back in gilt letters, 
“Bills Discounted.” In this were the notes due the bank with 
their attached securities, and the major, in his rough way, 
dumped the lot upon his desk and began to sort them over. 

By this time Nettlewick had finished his count of the cash. 
His pencil fluttered like a swallow over the sheet of paper 
on which he had set his figures. He opened his black wal- 
let, which seemed to be also a kind of secret memorandum 
book, made a few rapid figures in it, wheeled and transfixed 
Dorsey with the glare of his spectacles. That look seemed 
to say: “You’re safe this time, but — ” 

“Cash all correct,” snapped the examiner. He made a 
dash for the individual bookkeeper, and, for a few minutes 
thore was a fluttering of ledger leaves and a sailing of bal- 
ance sheets through the air. 

“How often do you balance your pass-books?” he de- 
manded, suddenly. 

“Er — once a month,” faltered the individual book- 
keeper, wondering how many years they would give him. 

“All right,” said the examiner, turning and charging upon 
the general bookkeeper, who had the statements of his for- 
eign banks and their reconcilement memoranda ready. Every- 
thing there was found to be all right. Then the stub book 
of the certificates of deposit. Flutter — flutter — zip — zip 
* — check ! All right. List of over-drafts, please. Thanks. 
H’m-m. Unsigned bills of the bank, next. All right. 

Then came the cashier’s turn, and easy-going Mr. Edlinger 
rubbed his nose and polished his glasses nervously under the 
quick fire of questions concerning the circulation, undivided 
profits, bank real estate, and stock ownership. 


160 


Bo ads of Destiny 

Presently Nettlewick was aware of a big man towering 
above him at his elbow — a man sixty years of age, rugged 
and hale, with a rough, grizzled beard, a mass of gray hair, 
and a pair of penetrating blue eyes that confronted the for- 
midable glasses of the examiner without a flicker. 

“Er — Major Kingman, our president — er — Mr. Nettle- 
wick, ” said the cashier. 

Two men of very different types shook hands. One was a 
finished product of the world of straight lines, conventional 
methods, and formal affairs. The other was something freer, 
wider and nearer to nature. Tom Kingman had not been cut 
to any pattern. He had been mule-driver, cowboy, ranger, 
soldier, sheriff, prospector, and cattleman. Now, when he 
was bank president, his old comrades from the prairies, of the 
saddle, tent, and trail found no change in him. He had made 
his fortune when Texas cattle were at the high tide of value, 
and had organized the First National Bank of San Rosario. 
In spite of his largeness of heart and sometimes unwise gen- 
erosity toward his old friends, the bank had prospered, foi 
Major Tom Kingman knew men as well as he knew cattle. 
Of late years the cattle business had known a depression, and 
the major’s bank was one of the few whose losses had not 
been great. 

‘‘And now,” said the examiner, briskly, pulling out his 
watch, “the last thing is the loans. We will take them up 
now, if you please.” 

He had gone through the First National at almost record- 
breaking speed — but thoroughly, as he did everything. The 
running order of the bank was smooth and clean, and that 
had facilitated his work. There was but one other bank in 
the town. He received from the Government a fee of twenty- 
five dollars for each bank that he examined. He should be 
able to go over those loans and discounts in half an hour. 
If so, he could examine the other bank immediately after- 


Friends in San Rosario 


161 


ward, and catch the 11.45, the only other train that day in 
the direction he was working. Otherwise, he would have to 
spend the night and Sunday in this uninteresting Western 
town. That was why Mr. Nettlewick was rushing matters. 

“Come with me, sir,” said Major Kingman, in his deep 
voice, that united the Southern drawl with the rhythmic 
twang of the West; “We will go over them together. No- 
body in the bank knows those notes as I do. Some of ’em 
are a little wobbly on their legs, and some are mavericks 
without extra many brands on their backs, but they’ll most all 
pay out at the round-up.” 

The two sat down at the president’s desk. First, the ex- 
aminer went through the notes at lightning speed, and added 
up their total, finding it to agree with the amount of loans 
carried on the book of daily balances. Next, he took up 
the larger loans, inquiring scrupulously into the condition 
of their endorsers or securities. The new examiner’s mind 
seemed to course and turn and make unexpected dashes hither 
and thither like a bloodhound seeking a trail. Finally he 
pushed aside all the notes except a few, which he arranged 
in a neat pile before him, and began a dry, formal little 
speech. 

“I find, sir, the condition of your bank to be very good, 
considering the poor crops and the depression in the cattle 
interests of your state. The clerical work seems to be done 
accurately and punctually. Your past-due paper is moderate 
in amount, and promises only a small loss. I would recom- 
mend the calling in of your large loans, and the making of 
only sixty and ninety day or call loans until general business 
revives. And now, there is one thing more, and I will have 
finished with the bank. Here are six notes aggregating some- 
thing like $40,000. They are secured, according to their 
faces, by various stocks, bonds, shares, etc., to the value of 
$70,000. Those securities are missing from the notes to 


162 


Roads of Destiny 

which they should be attached. I suppose you have them in 
the safe or vault. You will permit me to examine them.” 

Major Tom’s light-blue eyes turned unflinchingly toward 
the examiner. 

“No, sir,” he said, in a low but steady tone; “those se- 
curities are neither in the safe nor the vault. I have taken 
them. You may hold me personally responsible for their 
absence.” 

Nettlewick felt a slight thrill. He had not expected this. 
He had struck a momentous trail when the hunt was drawing 
to a close. 

“Ah!” said the examiner. He waited a moment, and then 
continued: “May I ask you to explain more definitely?” 

“The securities were taken by me,” repeated the major. 
*Tt was not for my own use, but to save an old friend in 
trouble. Come in here, sir, and we’ll talk it over.” 

He led the examiner into the bank’s private office at die 
rear, and closed the door. There was a desk, and a table, 
and half-a-dozen leather-covered chairs. On the wall was the 
mounted head of a Texas steer with horns five feet from tip 
to tip. Opposite hung the major’s old cavalry saber that he 
had carried at Shiloh and Fort Pillow. 

Placing a chair for Nettlewick, the major seated himself 
by the window, from which he could see the post-office and 
the carved limestone front of the Stockman’s National. He 
did not speak at once, and Nettlewick felt, perhaps, that the 
ice should be broken by something so near its own tempera- 
ture as the voice of official warning. 

“Your statement,” he began, “since you have failed to 
modify it, amounts, as you must know, to a very serious thing. 
You are aware, also, of what my duty must compel me to 
do. I shall have to go before the United States Commissioner 
and make — ” 

“I know, I know,” said Major Toro, with a wave of his 


Friends in San Rosario 


163 


hand. “You don’t suppose I’d run a bank without being 
posted on national banking laws and the revised statutes ! Do 
your duty. I’m not asking any favours. But, I spoke of my 
friend. I did want you to hear me tell you about Bob.” 

Nettlewick settled himself in his chair. There would be 
no leaving San Rosario for him that day. He would have 
to telegraph to the Comptroller of the Currency; he would 
have to swear out a warrant before the United States Com- 
missioner for the arrest of Major Kingman; perhaps he would 
be ordered to close the bank on account of the loss of the 
securities. It was not the first crime the examiner had un- 
earthed. Once or twice the terrible upheaval of human 
emotions that his investigations had loosed had almost caused 
a ripple in his official calm. He had seen bank men kneel 
and plead and cry like women for a chance — an hour’s time 
— the overlooking of a single error. One cashier had shot 
himself at his desk before him. None of them had taken 
it with the dignity and coolness of this stern old Westerner, 
Nettlewick felt that he owed it to him at least to listen if he 
wished to talk. With his elbow on the arm of his chair, and 
his square chin resting upon the fingers of his right hand, 
the bank examiner waited to hear the confession of the presi- 
dent of the First National Bank of San Rosario. 

“When a man’s your friend,” began Major Tom, some- 
what didactically, “for forty years, and tried by water, fire, 
earth, and cyclones, when you can do him a little favour 
you feel like doing it.” 

(“Embezzle for him $70,000 worth of securities,” thought 
the examiner.) 

“We were cowboys together, Bob and I,” continued the 
major, speaking slowly, and deliberately, and musingly, as 
if his thoughts were rather with the past than the critical 
present, “and we prospected together for gold and silver 
over Arizona, New Mexico, and a good part of California. 


164 


Roads of Destiny 

We were both in the war of ’sixty-one, but in different com* 
mands. We’ve fought Indians and horse thieves side by side; 
we’ve starved for weeks in a cabin in the Arizona mountains, 
buried twenty feet deep in snow; we’ve ridden herd together 
when the wind blew so hard the lightning couldn’t strike — 
well, Bob and I have been through some rough spells since 
the first time we met in the branding camp of the old Anchor- 
Bar ranch. And during that time we’ve found it necessary 
more than once to help each other out of tight places. In 
those days it was expected of a man to stick to his friend, 
and he didn’t ask any credit for it. Probably next day you’d 
need him to get at your back and help stand off a band of 
Apaches, or put a tourniquet on your leg above a rattlesnake 
bite and ride for whisky. So, after all, it was give and take, 
and if you didn’t stand square with your pardner, why, you 
might be shy one when you needed him. But Bob was a man who 
was willing to go further than that. He never played a limit. 

“Twenty years ago I was sheriff of this county, and I 
made Bob my chief deputy. That was before the boom in 
cattle when we both made our stake. I was sheriff and col- 
lector, and it was a big thing for me then. I was married, 
and we had a boy and a girl — a four and a six year old. 
There was a comfortable house next to the courthouse, 
furnished by the county, rent free, and I was saving some 
money. Bob did most of the office work. Both of us had seen 
rough times and plenty of rustling and danger, and I tell you 
it was great to hear the rain and the sleet dashing against 
the windows of nights, and be warm and safe and comfort- 
able, and know you could get up in the morning and be 
shaved and have folks call you ‘mister/ And then, I had 
the finest wife and kids that ever struck the range, and my 
old friend with me enjoying the first fruits of prosperity and 
white shirts, and I guess I was happy. Yes, I was happv 
about that time.” 


Friends in San Rosario 


165 


The major sighed and glanced casually out of the win- 
dow. The bank examiner changed his position, and leaned his 
chin upon his other hand. 

“One winter,” continued the major, “the money for the 
county taxes came pouring in so fast that I didn’t have time 
to take the stuff to the bank for a week. I just shoved the 
checks into a cigar box and the money into a sack, and locked 
them in the big safe that belonged in the sheriff’s office. 

“I had been overworked that week, and was about sick, 
anyway. My nerves were out of order, and my sleep at 
night didn’t seem to rest me. The doctor had some scientific 
name for it, and I was taking medicine. And so, added to 
the rest, I went to bed at night with that money on my mind. 
Not that there was much need of being worried, for the safe 
was a good one, and nobody but Bob and I knew the combi- 
nation. On Friday night there was about $6,500 in cash in 
the bag. On Saturday morning I went to the office as usual. 
The safe was locked, and Bob was writing at his desk. I 
opened the safe, and the money was gone. I called Bob, and 
roused everybody in the court-house to announce the robbery. 
It struck me that Bob took it pretty quiet, considering how 
much it reflected upon both him and me. 

“Two days went by and we never got a clew. It couldn’t 
have been burglars, for the safe had been opened by the com- 
bination in the proper way. People must have begun to talk, 
for one afternoon in comes Alice — that’s my wife — and 
the boy and girl, and Alice stamps her foot, and her eyes 
flash, and she cries out, 'The lying wretches — Tom, Tom!’ 
and I catch her in a faint, and bring her ’round little by little, 
and she lays her head down and cries and cries for the first 
time since she took Tom Kingman’s name and fortunes. And 
Jack and Zilla — the youngsters — they were always wild as 
tiger cubs to rush at Bob and climb all over him whenever 
they were allowed to come to the court-house — they stood 


166 


Roads of Destiny 

and kicked their little shoes, and herded together like scared 
partridges. They were having their first trip down into the 
shadows of life. Bob was working at his desk, and he got 
up and went out without a word. The grand jury was in 
session then, and the next morning Bob went before them 
and confessed that he stole the money. He said he lost it 
in a poker game. In fifteen minutes they had found a true 
bill and sent me the warrant to arrest the man with whom I'd 
been closer than a thousand brothers for many a year. 

“I did it, and then I said to Bob, pointing: ‘There's my 
house, and here's my office, and up there's Maine, and out 
that way is California, and over there is Florida — and that's 
your range 'til court meets. You're in my charge, and I take 
the responsibility. You be here when you’re wanted.' 

“ ‘Thanks, Tom,' he said, kind of carelessly ; ‘I was sort 
of hoping you wouldn't lock me up. Court meets next Mon- 
day, so, if you don’t object. I'll just loaf around the office 
until then. I’ve got one favour to ask, if it isn't too much. 
If you'd let the kids come out in the yard once in a while* 
and have a romp I'd like it.' 

‘VWhy not?' I answered him. ‘They're welcome, and s< 
are you. And come to my house, the same as ever.' You 
see, Mr. Nettlewick, you can't make a friend of a thief, but 
neither can you make a thief of a friend, all at once." 

The examiner made no answer. At that moment was heard 
the shrill whistle of a locomotive pulling into the depot. 
That was the train on the little, narrow-gauge road that struck 
into San Rosario from the south. The major cocked his ear 
and listened for a moment, and looked at his watch. The 
narrow-gauge was in on time — 10.35. The major continued: 

“So Bob hung around the office, reading the papers and 
smoking. I put another deputy to work in his place, and, 
after a while, the first excitement of the case wore off. 

“One day when we were alone in the office Bob came ovei* 


Friends in San Rosario 


167 


to where I was sitting. He was looking sort of grim and 
blue — the same look he used to get when he’d been up watch- 
ing for Indians all night or herd-riding. 

“ ‘Tom/ says he, ‘ it’s harder than standing off redskins ; 
it’s harder than lying in the lava desert forty miles from 
water; but I’m going to stick it out to the end. You know 
that’s been my style. But if you’d tip me the smallest kind 
of a sign — if you’d just say, “Bob I understand/’ why, it 
would make it lots easier.’ 

“I was surprised. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Bob/ I 
said. ‘Of course, you know that I’d do anything under 
the sun to help you that I could. But you’ve got me guess- 
ing.’ 

“ ‘All right, Tom/ was all he said, and he went back to his 
newspaper and lit another cigar. 

“It was the night before court met when I found out what 
he meant. I went to bed that night with the same old, light- 
headed, nervous feeling come back upon me. I dropped off to 
sleep about midnight. When I awoke I was standing half 
dressed in one of the court-house corridors. Bob was holding 
one of my arms, our family doctor the other, and Alice was 
shaking me and half crying. She had sent for the doctor 
without my knowing it, and when he came they had found me 
out of bed and missing, and had begun a search. 

“ ‘Sleep-walking/ said the doctor. 

“All of us went back to the house, and the doctor told us 
some remarkable stories about the strange things people had 
done while in that condition. I was feeling rather chilly 
after my trip out, and, as my wife was out of the room at the 
time, I pulled open the door of an old wardrobe that stood in 
the room and dragged out a big quilt I had seen in there. 
With it tumbled out the bag of money for stealing which Bob 
was to be tried — and convicted — in the morning. 

“‘How the jumping rattlesnakes did that get there?’ I 


168 


Roads of Destiny 

yelled, and all hands must have seen how surprised I was. 
Bob knew in a flash, 

“ ‘You darned old snoozer,' he said, with the old-time look 
on his face, ‘I saw you put it there. I watched you open the 
safe and take it out, and I followed you. I looked through 
the window and saw you hide it in that wardrobe/ 

“ ‘Then, you blankety-blank, flop-eared, sheep-headed coy- 
ote, what did you say you took it, for ?' 

“ ‘Because,' said Bob, simply, ‘I didn't know you were 
asleep.' 

“I saw him glance toward the door of the room where Jack 
and Zilla were, and I knew then what it meant to be a man's 
friend from Bob's point of view." 

Major Tom paused, and again directed his glance out of 
the window. He saw some one in the Stockmen's National 
Bank reach and draw a yellow shade down the whole length 
of its plate-glass, big front window, although the position of 
the sun did not seem to warrant such a defensive movement 
against its rays. 

Nettlewick sat up straight in his chair. He had listened 
patiently, but without consuming interest, to the major's story. 
It had impressed him as irrelevant to the situation, and it 
could certainly have no effect upon the consequences. Those 
Western people, he thought, had an exaggerated sentimen- 
tality. They were not business-like. They needed to be pro- 
tected from their friends. Evidently the major had con- 
cluded. And what he had said amounted to nothing. 

“May I ask," said the examiner, “if you have anything 
further to say that bears directly upon the question of those 
abstracted securities ?" 

“Abstracted securities, sir!" Major Tom turned suddenly 
in his chair, his blue eyes flashing upon the examiner. “What 
do you mean, sir?" 

He drew from his coat pocket a batch of folded papers 


Friends in San Rosario 169 

held together by a rubber band, tossed them into Nettlewick’s 
hands, and rose to his feet. 

"You'll find those securities there, sir, every stock, bond, 
and share of 'em. I took them from the notes while you were 
counting the cash. Examine and compare them for yourself/’ 

The major led the way back into the banking room. The 
examiner, astounded, perplexed, nettled, at sea, followed. He 
felt that he had been made the victim of something that was not 
exactly a hoax, but that left him in the shoes of one who had 
been played upon, used, and then discarded, without even an 
inkling of the game. Perhaps, also, his official position had 
been irreverently juggled with. But there was nothing he 
could take hold of. An official report of the matter would be 
an absurdity. And, somehow, he felt that he would never 
know anything more about the matter than he did then. 

Frigidly, mechanically, Nettlewick examined the securities, 
found them to tally with the notes, gathered his black wallet, 
and rose to depart. 

“I will say," he protested, turning the indignant glare of 
his glasses upon Major Kingman, "that your statements — 
your misleading statements, which you have not condescended 
to explain — do not appear to be quite the thing, regarded 
either as business or humour. I do not understand such 
motives or actions." 

Major Tom looked down at him serenely and not unkindly. 

"Son," he said, "there are plenty of things in the ehapar* 
ral, and on the prairies, and up the canons that you don’t 
understand. But I want to thank you for listening to a gar- 
rulous old man’s prosy story. We old Texans love to talk 
about our adventures and our old comrades, and the home 
folks have long ago learned to run when we begin with ‘Once 
upon a time,’ so we have to spin our yarns to the stranger 
within our gates." 

The major smiled, but the examiner only bowed coldly, 


170 


Roads of Destiny 

and abruptly quitted the bank. They saw him travel diag* 
onally across the street in a straight line and enter the Stock* 
men’s National Bank. 

Major Tom sat down at his desk, and drew from his vest 
pocket the note Boy had given him. He had read it once, 
but hurriedly, and now, with something like a twinkle in his 
eyes, he read it again. These were the words he read: 

Dear Tom: 

I hear there’s one of Uncle Sam’s grayhound’s going through you, 
and that means that we’ll catch him inside of a couple of hours, 
maybe. Now, I want you to do something for me. We’ve got just 
$2,200 in the bank, and the law requires that we have $20,000. I 
let Ross and Fisher have $18,000 late yesterday afternoon to buy 
up that Gibson bunch of cattle. They’ll realize $40,000 in less than 
thirty days on the transaction, but that won t make my cash on 
hand look any prettier to that bank examiner. Now, I can’t show 
him those notes, for they’re just plain notes of hand without any 
security in sight, but you know very well that Pink Ross and Jim 
Fisher are two of the finest white men God ever made, and they’l! 
do the square thing. You remember Jim Fisher — he was the one 
who shot that faro dealer in El Paso. I wired Sam Bradshaw’s 
bank to send me $20,000, and it will get in on the narrow-gauge a* 
10.35. You can’t let a bank examiner in to count $2,200 and closs 
your doors. Tom, you hold that examiner. Hold him. Hold him 
if you have to rope him and sit on his head. Watch our front win* 
dow after the narrow-gauge gets in, and when we’ve got the cash 
inside we’ll pull down the shade for a signal. Don’t turn him loose 
till then. I’m counting on you, Tom. 

Your Old Pard, 

Bob Buckley, 

Prest. Stockmen’s National. 

The major began to tear the note into small pieces and 
throw them into his waste basket. He gave a satisfied little 
chuckle as he did so. 

“Confounded old reckless cowpuncher !” he growled, con- 
tentedly, “that pays him some on account for what he tried 
to do for me in the sheriff’s office twenty years ago.” 


XIII 


THE FOURTH IN SALVADOR 

On a summer’s day, while the city was rocking with the din 
and red uproar of patriotism, Billy Casparis told me this story* 

In his way, Billy is Ulysses, Jr. Like Satan, he comes 
from going to and fro upon the earth and walking up and 
down in it. To-morrow morning while you are cracking your 
breakfast egg he may be off with his little alligator grip to 
boom a town site in the middle of Lake Okeechobee or to trade 
horses with the Patagonians. 

We sat at a little, round table, and between us were glasses 
holding big lumps of ice, and above us leaned an artificial 
palm. And because our scene was set with the properties of 
the one they recalled to his mind, Billy was stirred to nar- 
rative. 

“It reminds me,” said he, “of a Fourth I helped to cele- 
brate down in Salvador. ’Twas while I was running an ice 
factory down there, after I unloaded that silver mine I had in 
Colorado. I had what they called a ‘conditional concession^ 
They made me put up a thousand dollars cash forfeit that I 
would make ice continuously for six months. If I did that I 
could draw down my ante. If I failed to do so the govern- 
ment took the pot. So the inspectors kept dropping in, trying 
to catch me without the goods. 

“One day when the thermometer was at 110, the clock at 
half-past one, and the calendar at July third, two of the little, 
brown, oily nosers in red trousers slid in to make an inspection. 
Now, the factory hadn’t turned out a pound of ice in three 

w* 


172 


Roads of Destiny 

weeks, for a couple of reasons. The Salvador heathen 
wouldn’t buy it; they said it made things cold they put it in. 
And I couldn’t make any more, because I was broke. All I 
was holding on for was to get down my thousand so I could 
leave the country. The six months would be up on the sixth 
of July. 

“Well, I showed ’em all the ice I had. I raised the lid 
of a darkish vat, and there was an elegant 100-pound block 
of ice, beautiful and convincing to the eye. I was about to 
close down the lid again when one of those brunette sleuths 
flops down on his red knees and lays a slanderous and violent 
hand on my guarantee of good faith. And in two minutes 
more they had dragged out on the floor that fine chunk of 
molded glass that had cost me fifty dollars to have shipped 
down from Frisco. 

“ ‘Ice-y?’ says the fellow that played me the dishonourable 
trick; Verree warm ice-y. Yes. The day is that hot, senor. 
Yes. Maybeso it is of desirableness to leave him out to get 
the cool. Yes/ 

“ 'Yes/ says I, 'yes/ for I knew they had me. 'Touch- 
ing’s believing, ain’t it, boys? Yes. Now there’s some might 
say the seats of your trousers are sky blue, but ’tis my opinion 
they are red. Let’s apply the tests of the laying on of hands 
and feet.’ And so I hoisted both those inspectors out the 
door on the toe of my shoe, and sat down to cool off on my 
block of disreputable glass. 

“And, as I live without oats, while I sat there, homesick 
for money and without a cent to my ambition, there came on 
the breeze the most beautiful smell my nose had entered for a 
year. God knows where it came from in that backyard of a 
country — it was a bouquet of soaked lemon peel, cigar 
stumps, and stale beer — exactly the smell of Goldbrick 
Charley’s place on Fourteenth Street where I used to play 
pinochle of afternoons with the third-rate actors. And that 


The Fourth in Salvador 


173 


smell drove my troubles through me and clinched ’em at the 
back. I began to long for my country and feel sentiments 
about it; and I said words about Salvador that you wouldn’t 
think could come legitimate out of an ice factory. 

“And while I was sitting there, down through the blazing 
sunshine in his clean, white clothes comes Maximilian Jones, 
an American interested in rubber and rosewood. 

“ 'Great carrambos !’ says I, when he stepped in, for I was 
in a bad temper, ‘didn’t I have catastrophes enough? I know 
what you want. You want to tell me that story again about 
Johnny Ammiger and the widow on the train. You’ve told 
it nine times already this month/ 

“ ‘It must be the heat,’ says Jones, stopping in the door, 
amazed. ‘Poor Billy. He’s got bugs. Sitting on ice, and 
calling his best friends pseudonyms. Hi! — muchacho !* 
Jones called my force of employees, who was sitting in the 
sun, playing with his toes, and told him to put on his trousers 
and run for the doctor. 

“ ‘Come back,’ says I. ‘Sit down, Maxy, and forget it. 
’Tis not ice you see, nor a lunatic upon it ’Tis only an exile 
full of homesickness sitting on a lump of glass that’s just 
cost him a thousand dollars. Now, what was it Johnny said 
to the widow first? I’d like to hear it again, Maxy — honest. 
Don’t mind what I said.’ 

“Maximilian Jones and I sat down and talked. He was 
about as sick of the country as I was, for the grafters were 
squeezing him for half the profits of his rosewood and rubber. 
Down in the bottom of a tank of water I had a dozen bottles 
of sticky Frisco beer; and I fished these up, and we fell to 
talking about home and the flag and Hail Columbia and home- 
fried potatoes ; and the drivel we contributed would have sick- 
ened any man enjoying those blessings. But at that time we 
were out of ’em. You can’t appreciate home till you’ve left 
it, money till it’s spent, your wife till she’s joined a woman’s 


174 


Roads of Destiny 

club, nor Old Glory till you see it hanging on a broomstick on 
the shanty of a consul in a foreign town. 

"And sitting there me and Maximilian Jones, scratching 
at our prickly heat and kicking at the lizards on the floor, 
became afflicted with a dose of patriotism and affection for 
our country. There was me, Billy Casparis, reduced from a 
capitalist to a pauper by over-addiction to my glass (in the 
lump), declares my troubles off for the present and myself 
to be an uncrowned sovereign of the greatest country on earth. 
And Maximilian Jones pours out whole drug stores of his 
wrath on oligarchies and potentates in red trousers and calico 
shoes. And we issues a declaration of interference in which 
we guarantee that the fourth day of July shall be celebrated 
in Salvador with all the kinds of salutes, explosions, honours 
of war, oratory, and liquids known to tradition. Yes, neither 
me nor Jones breathed with soul so dead. There shall be 
rucuses in Salvador, we say, and the monkeys had better 
climb the tallest cocoanut trees and the fire department get 
out its red sashes and two tin buckets. 

"About this time into the factory steps a native man 
incriminated by the name of General Mary Esperanza Dingo. 
He was some pumpkin both in politics and colour, and the 
friend of me and Jones. He was full of politeness and a 
kind of intelligence, having picked up the latter and managed 
to preserve the former during a two years' residence in 
Philadelphia studying medicine. For a Salvadorian he was 
not such a calamitous little man, though he always would 
play jack, queen, king, ace, deuce for a straight. 

"General Mary sits with us and has a bottle. While he 
was in the States he had acquired a synopsis of the English 
language and the art of admiring our institutions. By and by 
the General gets up and tiptoes to the doors and windows and 
other stage entrances, remarking ‘Hist!' at each one. They 
$11 do that in Salvador before they ask for a (Jrink of water 


The Fourth in Salvador 175 

or the time of day, being conspirators from the cradie and 
matinee idols by proclamation. 

“ ‘Hist !’ says General Dingo again, and then he lays his 
chest on the table quite like Gaspard the Miser. ‘Good 
friends, senores, to-morrow will be the great day of Liberty 
and Independence. The hearts of Americans and Salvador- 
ians should beat together. Of your history and your great 
Washington I know. Is it not so?' 

“Now, me and Jones thought that nice of the General to 
remember when the Fourth came. It made us feel good. He 
must have heard the news going round in Philadelphia about 
that disturbance we had with England. 

“ ‘Yes/ says me and Maxy together, ‘we knew it. We 
were talking about it when you came in. And you can bet 
your bottom concession that there’ll be fuss and feathers in the 
air to-morrow. We are few in numbers, but the welkin may 
as well reach out to push the button, for it’s got to ring.’ 

“ ‘I, too, shall assist/ says the General, thumping his 
collar-bone. ‘I, too, am on the side of Liberty. Noble 
Americans, we will make the day one to be never forgotten.’ 

"‘For us American whisky/ says Jones — ‘none of you* 
Scotch smoke or anisada or Three Star Hennessey to-morrow. 
We’ll borrow the consul’s flag; old man Billflnger shall make 
orations, and we’ll have a barbecue on the plaza.’ 

“ ‘Fireworks,’ says I, ‘will be scarce; but we’ll have all the 
cartridges in the shops for our guns. I’ve got two navy sixef 
I brought from Denver.’ 

“ ‘There is one cannon/ said the General; ‘one big cannon 
that will go “BOOM !” And three hundred men with rifles 
to shoot.* 

“ ‘Oh, say !’ says J ones, ‘Generalissimo, you’re the real 
silk elastic. We’ll make it a joint international celebration. 
Please, General, get a white horse and a blue sash and be 
grand marshal.’ 


176 


Roads of Destiny 

“ ‘With my sword,’ says the General, rolling his eyes, ‘I 
shall ride at the head of the brave men who gather in the name 
of Liberty.’ 

" 'And you might/ we suggest, 'see the eommandante and 
advise him that we are going to prize things up a bit. We 
Americans, you know, are accustomed to using municipal 
regulations for gun wadding when we line up to help the eagle 
scream. He might suspend the rules for one day. We don’t 
want to get in the calaboose for spanking his soldiers if they 
get in our way, do you see?’ 

" 'Hist!’ says General Mary. 'The commandant is with us, 
heart and soul. He will aid us. He is one of us.’ 

"We made all the arrangements that afternoon. There 
was a buck coon from Georgia in Salvador who had drifted 
down there from a busted-up coloured colony that had been 
started on some possumless land in Mexico. As soon as he 
heard us say ‘barbecue’ he wept for joy and groveled on the 
ground. He dug his trench on the plaza, and got half a beef 
on the coals for an all-night roast. Me and Maxy went to see 
the rest of the Americans in the town and they all sizzled like 
a seidlitz with joy at the idea of solemnizing an old-time 
Fourth. 

"There were six of us all together — Martin Dillard, a 
coffee planter; Henry Barnes, a railroad man; old man Bill- 
finger, an educated tintype taker; me and Jonesy, and Jerry, 
the boss of the barbecue. There was also an Englishman in 
town named Sterrett, who was there to write a book on 
Domestic Architecture of the Insect World. We felt some 
bashfulness about inviting a Britisher to help crow over his 
own country, but we decided to risk it, out of our personal 
regard for him. 

"We found Sterrett in pajamas working at his manuscript 
with a bottle of brandy for a paper weight. 

"'Englishman/ says Jones, 'let us interrupt your dis- 


The Fourth in Salvador 


177 


quisition on bug houses for a moment. To-morrow is the 
Fourth of July. We don’t want to hurt your feelings, but 
we’re going to commemorate the day when we licked you by 
a little refined debauchery and nonsense — something that can 
be heard above five miles off. If you are broad-gauged 
enough to taste whisky at your own wake, we’d be pleased to 
have you join us.’ 

“ ‘Do you know,’ says Sterrett, setting his glasses on his 
nose, T like your cheek in asking me if I’ll join you; blast 
me if I don’t. You might have known I would, without ask- 
ing. Not as a traitor to my own country, but for the intrinsic 
joy of a blooming row.’ 

“On the morning of the Fourth I woke up in that old 
shanty of an ice factory feeling sore. I looked around at the 
wreck of all I possessed, and my heart was full of bile. 
From where I lay on my cot I could look through the window 
and see the consul’s old ragged Stars and Stripes hanging over 
his shack. ‘You’re all kinds of a fool, Billy Casparis,’ I 
says to myself; ‘and of all your crimes against sense it does 
look like this idea of celebrating the Fourth should receive the 
award of demerit. Your business is busted up, your thousand 
dollars is gone into the kitty of this corrupt country on that 
last bluff you made, you’ve got just fifteen Chili dollars left, 
worth forty-six cents each at bedtime last night and steadily 
going down. To-day you’ll blow in your last cent hurrahing 
for that flag, and to-morrow you’ll be living on bananas from 
the stalk and screwing your drinks out of your friends. 
What’s the flag done for you? While you were under it you 
worked for what you got. You wore your finger nails down 
skinning suckers, and salting mines, and driving bears and 
alligators off your town lot additions. How much does pa- 
triotism count for on deposit when the little man with the green 
eye-shade in the savings-bank adds up your book? Suppose 
you were to get pinched over here in this irreligious country 


178 


Roads of Destiny 

for some little crime or other, and appealed to your country 
for protection — what would it do for you? Turn your ap- 
peal over to a committee of one railroad man, an army officer, 
a member of each labour union, and a coloured man to in- 
vestigate whether any of your ancestors were ever related to 
a cousin of Mark Hanna, and then file the papers in the 
Smithsonian Institution until after the next election. That's 
the kind of a sidetrack the Stars and Stripes would switch 
you onto.' 

“You can see that I was feeling like an indigo plant; but 
after I washed my face in some cool water, and got out my 
navys and ammunition, and started up to the Saloon of the 
Immaculate Saints where we were to meet, I felt better. And 
when I saw those other American boys come swaggering into 
the trysting place — cool, easy, conspicuous fellows, ready to 
risk any kind of a one-card draw, or to fight grizzlies, fire, or 
extradition, I began to feel glad I was one of 'em. So, X 
says to myself again: ‘Billy, you've got fifteen dollars and 
a country left this morning — blow in the dollars and blow 
up the town as an American gentleman should on Independ- 
ence Day.' 

“It is my recollection that we began the day along con- 
ventional lines. The six of us — for Sterrett was along — 
made progress among the cantinas, divesting the bars as we 
went of all strong drink bearing American labels. We kept 
informing the atmosphere as to the glory and preeminence of 
the United States and its ability to subdue, out jump, and 
eradicate the other nations of the earth. And, as the find- 
ings of American labels grew more plentiful, we became more 
contaminated with patriotism. Maximilian Jones hopes that 
our late foe, Mr. Sterrett, will not take offense at our enthusi- 
asm. He sets down his bottle and shakes Sterrett's hand. 
‘As white man to white man,' says he, ‘denude our uproar of 
the slightest taint of personality. Excuse us for Bunker Hill, 


The Fourth in Salvador 179 

Patrick Henry, and Waldorf Astor, and such grievances as 
might lie between us as nations.” 

“ ‘Fellow hoodlums/ says Sterrett, ‘on behalf of the Queen 
I ask you to cheese it. It is an honour to be a guest at dis- 
turbing the peace under the American flag. Let us chant the 
passionate strains of “Yankee Doodle” while the senor be- 
hind the bar mitigates the occasion with another round of 
cochineal and aqua fortis/ 

“Old Man Billfinger, being charged with a kind of rhetoric, 
makes speeches every time we stop. We explained to such 
citizens as we happened to step on that we were celebrating 
the dawn of our private brand of liberty, and to please 
enter such inhumanities as we might commit on the list of 
unavoidable casualties. 

“About eleven o'clock our bulletins read: ‘A considerable 
rise in temperature, accompanied by thirst and other alarm- 
ing symptoms.' We hooked arms and stretched our line across 
the narrow streets, all of us armed with Winchesters and 
navys for purposes of noise and without malice. We stopped 
on a street corner and fired a dozen or so rounds, and began 
a serial assortment of United States whoops and yells, prob- 
ably the first ever heard in that town. 

“When we made that noise things began to liven up. We 
heard a pattering up a side street, and here came General 
Mary Esperanza Dingo on a white horse with a couple of 
hundred brown boys following him in red undershirts and bare 
feet, dragging guns ten feet long. Jones and me had for- 
got all about General Mary and his promise to help us cele- 
brate. We fired another salute and gave another yell, while 
the General shook hands with us and waved his sword. 

“ ‘Oh, General,' shouts Jones, ‘this is great. This will be 
a real pleasure to the eagle. Get down and have a drink.' 

“‘Drink?' says the general. ‘No. There is no time to 
drink. Viva la Libertad!’ 


180 


Roads of Destiny 

" 'Don’t forget E Pluribus Unum ! 9 says Henry Barnes. 

“ ‘Viva it good and strong/ says I. 'Likewise, viva 
George Washington. God save the Union, and/ I says, bow- 
ing to Sterrett, 'don’t discard the Queen.’ 

“ ‘Thanks/ says Sterrett. 'The next round’s mine. All 
in to the bar. Army, too.’ 

"But we were deprived of Sterrett’s treat by a lot of gun- 
shots several squares away, which General Dingo seemed to 
think he ought to look after. He spurred his old white plug 
up that way, and the soldiers scuttled along after him. 

" 'Mary is a real tropical bird/ says Jones. 'He’s turned 
out the infantry to help us do honour to the Fourth. We’ll 
get that cannon he spoke of after a while and fire some win- 
dow-breakers with it. But just now I want some of that bar- 
becued beef. Let us on to the plaza.’ 

"There we found the meat gloriously done, and Jerry wait- 
ing, anxious. We sat around on the grass, and got hunks of 
it on our tin plates. Maximilian Jones, always made tender- 
hearted by drink, cried some because George Washington 
couldn’t be there to enjoy the day. 'There was a man I 
love, Billy/ he says, weeping on my shoulder. 'Poor George .' 
To think he’s gone, and missed the fireworks. A little more 
salt, please, Jerry.’ 

"From what we could hear, General Dingo seemed to be 
kindly contributing some noise while we feasted. There were 
guns going off around town, and pretty soon we heard that 
cannon go 'BOOM!’ just as he said it would. And then 
men began to skim along the edge of the plaza, dodging in 
among the orange trees and houses. We certainly had things 
stirred up in Salvador. We felt proud of the occasion and 
grateful to General Dingo. Sterrett was about to take a bite 
off a juicy piece of rib when a bullet took it away from his 
mouth. 

" 'Somebody’s celebrating with ball cartridges/ says he, 


The Fourth in Salvador 181 

reacRing for another piece. 'Little over-zealous for a non- 
resident patriot, isn’t it?’ 

" 'Don’t mind it/ I says to him. ' ’Twas an accident. 
They happen, you know, on the Fourth. After one reading 
of the Declaration of Independence in New York I’ve known 
the S. ft. O. sign to be hung out at all the hospitals and po- 
lice stations.’ 

"But then Jerry gives a howl and jumps up with one hand 
clapped to the back of his leg where another bullet has acted 
over-zealous. And then comes a quantity of yells, and round 
a corner and across the plaza gallops General Mary Esperanza 
Dingo embracing the neck of his horse, with his men run- 
ning behind him, mostly dropping their guns by way of dis- 
charging ballast. And chasing ’em all is a company of 
feverish little warriors wearing blue trousers and caps. 

" 'Assistance, amigos,’ the General shouts, trying to stop 
his horse. 'Assistance, in the name of Liberty!’ 

" 'That’s the Compania Azul, the President’s bodyguard/ 
says Jones. 'What a shame! They’ve jumped on poor old 
Mary just because he was helping us to celebrate. Come on, 
boys, it’s our Fourth; — do we let that little squad of A. D, 
T’s break it up?’ 

" T vote No,’ says Martin Dillard, gathering his Winches- 
ter. ‘It’s the privilege of an American citizen to drink, drill, 
dress up, and be dreadful on the Fourth of July, no matter 
whose country he’s in.’ 

" 'Fellow citizens !’ says old man Billfinger, 'In the dark- 
est hour of Freedom’s birth, when our brave forefathers pro- 
mulgated the principles of undying liberty, they never ex- 
pected that a bunch of blue jays like that should be allowed 
to bust up an anniversary. Let us preserve and protect the 
Constitution.’ 

"We made it unanimous, and then we gathered our guns 
and assaulted the blue troops in force. We fired over their 


182 


Roads of Destiny 

heads, and then charged ’em with a yell, and they broke and 
ran. We were irritated at having our barbecue disturbed, and 
we chased ’em a quarter of a mile. Some of ’em we caught 
and kicked hard. The General rallied his troops and joined 
in the chase. Finally they scattered in a thick banana grove, 
and we couldn’t flush a single one. So we sat down and rested. 

“If I were to be put, severe, through the third degree, I 
wouldn’t be able to tell much about the rest of the day. I 
mind that we pervaded the town considerable, calling upon 
the people to bring out more armies for us to destroy. I re-' 
member seeing a crowd somewhere, and a tall man that wasn’t 
Billfinger making a Fourth of July speech from a balcony. 
And that was about all. 

“Somebody must have hauled the old ice factory up to 
where I was, and put it around me, for there’s where I was 
when I woke up the next morning. As soon as I could recol- 
lect rr-v name and address I got up and held an inquest. My 
last cent was gone. I was all in. 

“And then a neat black carriage drives to the door, and out 
steps General Dingo and a bay man in a silk hat and tan shoes. 

“ 'Yes,’ says I to myself, T see it now. 'You’re the Chief 
de Policeos and High Lord Chamberlain of the Calaboosum; 
and you want Billy Casparis for excess of patriotism and 
assault with intent. All right. Might as well be in jail, any- 
how.’ 

“But it seems that General Mary is smiling, and the bay 
man shakes my hand, and speaks in the American dialect. 

“ 'General Dingo has informed me, Senor Casparis, of 
your gallant service in our cause. I desire to thank you with 
my person. The bravery of you and the other senores Amer- 
icanos turned the struggle for liberty in our favour. Our party 
triumphed. The terrible battle will live forever in history.’ 

“'Battle?’ says I; 'what battle?’ and I ran my mind 
back along history, trying to think. 


The Fourth in Salvador 


183 


“ ‘Senor Casparis is modest/ says General Dingo. ‘He 
led his brave compadres into the thickest of the fearful con- 
flict. Yes. Without their aid the revolution would have 
failed.’ 

“ ‘Why, now,’ says I, ‘don’t tell me there was a revolution 
yesterday. That was only a Fourth of — ’ 

“But right there I abbreviated. It seemed to me it might 
be best. 

“ ‘After the terrible struggle/ says the bay man, ‘President 
Bolano was forced to fly. To-day Caballo is President by 
proclamation. Ah, yes. Beneath the new administration I 
am the head of the Department of Mercantile Concessions. 
On my file I find one report, Senor Casparis, that you have 
not made ice in accord with your contract.’ And here the bay 
man smiles at me, ’cute. 

“ ‘Oh, well/ says I, ‘I guess the report’s straight. I know 
they caught me. That’s all there is to it.’ 

“ ‘Do not say so/ says the bay man. He pulls off a glove 
and. goes over and lays his hand on that chunk of glass. 

“ ‘Ice/ says he, nodding his head, solemn. 

“General Dingo also steps over and feels of it. 

“ ‘lee/ says the General; ‘I’ll swear to it.’ 

“ ‘If Senor Casparis/ says the bay man, ‘will present him- 
self to the treasury on the sixth day of this month he will re- 
ceive back the thousand dollars he did deposit as a forfeit. 
Adios, senor.’ 

“The General and the bay man bowed themselves out, and 
I bowed as often as they did. 

“And when the carriage rolls away through the sand I 
bows once more, deeper than ever, till my hat touches the 
ground. But this time ’twas not intended for them. For, 
over their heads, I saw the old flag fluttering in the breeze 
above the consul’s ?oof; and ’twas to it I made my profound- 
#st salute.” 


XIV 


THE EMANCIPATION OF BILLY 

In the old, old, square-porticoed mansion, with the wry 
window-shutters and the paint peeling off in discoloured 
flakes, lived one of the last of the war governers. 

The South has forgotten the enmity of the great conflict, 
but it refuses to abandon its old traditions and idols. In 
“Governor” Pemberton, as he was still fondly called, the in- 
habitants of Elmville saw the relic of their state's ancient 
greatness and glory. In his day he had been a man large in 
the eye of his country. His state had pressed upon him every 
’humour within its gift. And now when he was old, and en- 
joying a richly merited repose outside the swift current of 
public affairs, his townsmen loved to do him reverence for the 
sake of the past. 

The Governor's decaying “mansion” stood upon the main 
street of Elmville within a few feet of its rickety paling- 
fence. Every morning the Governor would descend the steps 
with extreme care and deliberation — on account of his rheu- 
matism — and then the click of his gold-headed cane would 
be heard as he slowly proceeded up the rugged brick side- 
walk. He was now nearly seventy-eight, but he had grown 
old gracefully and beautifully. His rather long, smooth hair 
and flowing, parted whiskers were snow-white. His full- 
skirted frock-coat was always buttoned snugly about his tall, 
spax© figure. He wore a high, well-kept silk hat — known 
as 3 "'‘plug” in Elmville — and nearly always gloves. His 

184 


The Emancipation of Billy 185 

manners were punctilious, and somewhat overcharged with 
courtesy. 

The Governor’s walks up Lee Avenue, the principal street, 
developed in their course into a sort of memorial, triumphant 
procession. Everyone he met saluted him with profound re- 
spect. Many would remove their hats. Those who were hon- 
oured with his personal friendship would pause to shake 
hands, and then you would see exemplified the genuine beau 
ideal Southern courtesy. 

Upon reaching the corner of the second square from the 
mansion, the Governor would pause. Another street crossed 
the avenue there, and traffic, to the extent of several farmers’ 
wagons and a peddler’s cart or two, would rage about the 
junction. Then the falcon eye of General DefFenbaugh 
would perceive the situation, and the General would hasten, 
with ponderous solicitude, from his office in the First National 
Bank building to the assistance of his old friend. 

When the two exchanged greetings the decay of modern 
manners would become accusingly apparent. The General’s 
bulky and commanding figure would bend lissomely at a point 
where you would have regarded its ability to do so with 
incredulity. The Governor’s cherished rheumatism would be 
compelled, for the moment, to give way before a genuflexion 
brought down from the days of the cavaliers. The Governor 
would take the General’s arm and be piloted safely between 
the hay-wagons and the sprinkling-cart to the other side of 
the street. Proceeding to the post-office in the care of his 
friend, the esteemed statesman would there hold an informal 
levee among the citizens who were come for their morning 
mail. Here, gathering two or three prominent in law, poli- 
tics, or family, the pageant would make a stately progress 
along the Avenue, stopping at the Palace Hotel, where, per- 
haps, would be found upon the register the name of some 
guest deemed worthy of an introduction to the state’s vener- 


186 


Hoads of Destiny 

able and illustrious son. If any such were found, an hour or 
two would be spent in recalling the faded glories of the Gov- 
ernor's long-vanished administration. 

On the return march the General would invariably sug- 
gest that. His Excellency being no doubt fatigued, it would 
be wise to recuperate for a few minutes at the Drug Em- 
porium of Mr. Appleby R. Fentress (an elegant gentleman, 
sir — one of the Chatham County Fentresses — so many of 
our best-blooded families have had to go into trade, sir, since 
the war). 

Mr. Appleby R. Fentress was a connoisseur in fatigue. In- 
deed, if he had not been, his memory alone should have em 
abled him to prescribe, for the majestic invasion of his 
pharmacy was a casual happening that had surprised him al- 
most daily for years. Mr. Fentress knew the formula of, 
and possessed the skill to compound, a certain potion antago- 
nistic to fatigue, the salient ingredient of which he described 
(no doubt in pharmaceutical terms) as 4 ‘genuine old hand- 
made Clover Leaf '59, Private Stock.” 

Nor did the ceremony of administering the potion ever 
vary. Mr. Fentress would first compound two of the cele- 
brated mixtures — one for the Governor, and the other for 
the General to “sample.” Then the Governor would make 
this little speech in his high, piping, quavering voice: 

“No, sir — not one drop until you have prepared one for 
yourself and join us, Mr. Fentress. Your father, sir, was one 
of my most valued supporters and friends during My Admin- 
istration, and any mark of esteem I can confer upon his son 
is not only a pleasure but a duty, sir.” 

Blushing with delight at the royal condescension, the drug- 
gist would obey, and all would drink to the General's toast: 
“The prosperity of our grand old state, gentlemen — the 
memory of her glorious past — the health of her Favourite 
Son.” 


187 


The Emancipation of Billy 

Some one of the Old Guard was always at hand to escort 
the Governor home. Sometimes the General’s business duties 
denied him the privilege, and then Judge Broomfield or Col- 
onel Titus, or one of the Ashford County Slaughters would 
be on hand to perform the rite. 

Such were the observances attendant upon the Governor’s 
morning stroll to the post-office. How much more magniff 
cent, impressive, and spectacular, then, was the scene at pub- 
lic functions when the General would lead forth the silver- 
haired relic of former greatness, like some rare and fragile 
waxwork figure, and trumpet his pristine eminence to his fel- 
low citizens ! 

General Deffenbaugh was the Voice of Elmville. Some 
said he was Elmville. At any rate, he had no competitor as 
the Mouthpiece. He owned enough stock in the Daily Ban- 
ner to dictate its utterance, enough shares in the First Na- 
tional Bank to be the referee of its loans, and a war record 
that left him without a rival for first place at barbecues, 
school commencements, and Decoration Days. Besides these 
acquirements he was possessed with endowments. His per- 
sonality was inspiring and triumphant. Undisputed sway 
had moulded him to the likeness of a fatted Roman emperor. 
The tones of his voice were not otherwise than clarion. To 
say that the General was public-spirited would fall short of 
doing him justice. He had spirit enough for a dozen pub- 
lics. And as a sure foundation for it all, he had a heart 
that was big and stanch. Yes; General Deffenbaugh was 
Elmville. 

One little incident that usually occurred during the Gov- 
ernor’s morning walk has had its chronicling delayed by more 
important matters. The procession was accustomed to halt 
before a small brick office on the Avenue, fronted by a short 
flight of steep wooden steps. A modest tin sign over the 
door bore the words: “Wm. B. Pemberton: Attorney-at-Law.” 


188 


Hoads of Destiny 

Looking inside, the General would roar: “Hello, Billy, 
E^y boy.” The less-distinguished members of the escort 
would call: “Morning, Billy.” The Governor would pipe: 
“Good-morning, William.” 

Then a patient-looking little man with hair turning gray 
along the temples would come down the steps and shake hands 
with each one of the party. All Elmville shook hands when 
it met. 

The formalities concluded, the little man would go back to 
his table, heaped with law books and papers, while the pro- 
cession would proceed. 

Billy Pemberton was, as his sign declared, a lawyer by pro- 
fession. By occupation and common consent he was the Son 
of his Father. This was the shadow in which Billy lived, the 
pit out of which he had unsuccessfully striven for years to 
climb and, he had come to believe, the grave in which his 
ambitions were destined to be buried. Filial respect and duty 
he paid beyond the habit of most sons, but he aspired to be 
known and apps^Lrcd by bis own deeds and worth. 

After *«any years of tireless labour he had become known 
in certain quarters far from Elmville as a master of the 
principles of the law. Twice he had gone to Washington and 
argued cases before the highest tribunal with such acute logic 
and learning that the silken gowns on the bench had rustled 
from the force of it. His income from his practice had 
grown until he was able to support his father, in the old fam- 
ily mansion (which neither of them would have thought of 
abandoning, rickety as it was) in the comfort and almost the 
luxury of the old extravagant days. Yet, he remained to 
Elmville as only “Billy” Pemberton, the son of our distin- 
guished and honoured fellow-townsman, “ex-Governor Pem- 
berton.” Thus was he introduced at public gatherings where 
he sometimes spoke, haltingly and prosily, for his talents were 
too serious and deep for extempore brilliancy; thus was he 


189 


The Emancipation of Billy 

presented to strangers and to the lawyers who made the cir- 
cuit of the courts; and so the Daily Banner referred to him 
in print. To' be “the son of” was his doom. What ever he 
should accomplish would have to be sacrificed upon the altar 
of this magnificent but fatal parental precedence. 

The peculiarity and the saddest thing about Billy’s ambi- 
tion was that the only world he thirsted to conquer was Elm- 
ville. His nature was diffident and unassuming. National or 
State honours might have oppressed him. But, above all 
things, he hungered for the appreciation of the friends among 
whom he had been born and raised. He would not have 
plucked one leaf from the garlands that were so lavishly be- 
stowed upon his father, he merely rebelled against having 
his own wreaths woven from those dried and self-same 
branches. But Elmville “Billied” and “sonned” him to 
his concealed but lasting chagrin, until at length he grew more 
reserved and formal and studious than ever. 

There came a morning when Billy found among his mail 
a letter from a very high source, tendering him the appoint- 
ment to an important judicial position in the new island 
possessions of our country. The honour was a distinguished 
one, for the entire nation had discussed the probable recipients 
of these positions, and had agreed that the situation demanded 
only men of the highest character, ripe learning, and evenly 
balanced mind. 

Billy could not subdue a certain exultation at this token 
of the success of his long and arduous labours, but, at the 
same time, a whimsical smile lingered around his mouth, for 
he foresaw in which column Elmville would place the credit. 
“We congratulate Governor Pemberton upon the mark of ap- 
preciation conferred upon his son” — “Elmville rejoices with 
our honoured citizen, Governor Pemberton, at his son’s suc- 
cess” — “Put her there, Billy !” — “Judge Billy Pemberton, 
sir; son of our State’? war hero and the people’s pride!” — 


190 


Roads of Destiny 

these were the phrases, printed and oral, conjured up by 
Billy's prophetic fancy. Grandson of his State, and stepchild 
to Elmville — thus had fate fixed his kinship to the body 
politic. 

Billy lived with his father in the old mansion. The two 
and an elderly lady — a distant relative — comprised the 
family. Perhaps, though, old Jeff, the Governor’s ancient 
coloured body -servant, should be included. Without doubt, 
he would have claimed the honour. There were other servants, 
but Thomas Jefferson Pemberton, sah, was a member of “de 
fambly." 

Jeff was the one Elmvillian who gave to Billy the gold of 
approval unmixed with the alloy of paternalism. To him 
“Mars William" was the greatest man in Talbot County. 
Beaten upon though he was by the shining light that emanates 
from an ex-war governor, and loyal as he remained to the old 
regime, his faith and admiration were Billy's. As valet to a 
hero, and a member of the family, he may have had superior 
opportunities for judging. 

Jeff was the first one to whom Bill revealed the news. 
When he reached home for supper Jeff took his “plug" 
hat and smoothed it before hanging it upon the hall-rack. 

“Dar now!" said the old man: “I knowed it was er cornin'. 
I knowed it was gwine ter happen. Er Judge, you says. 
Mars William? Dem Yankees done made you er judge? It’s 
high time, sah, dey was doin’ somep’n to make up for dey 
rescality endurin' de war. I boun’ dey holds a confab and 
says: ‘Le's make Mars William Pemberton er judge, and 
dat’ll settle it.' Does you have to go way down to dem Filly- 
pines, Mars William, or kin you judge 'em from here?" 

“I'd have to live there most of the time, of course," said 
Billy. 

“I wonder what de Gubnor gwine say 'bout dat," specu- 
lated Jeff. 


191 


The Emancipation of Billy 

Billy wondered too. 

After supper, when the two sat in the library, according 
to their habit, the Governor smoking his clay pipe and Billy 
his cigar, the son dutifully confessed to having been tendered 
the appointment. 

For a long time the Governor sat, smoking, without making 
any comment. Billy reclined in his favourite rocker, waiting, 
perhaps still flushed with satisfaction over the tender that 
had come to him, unsolicited, in his dingy little office, above 
the heads of the intriguing, time-serving, clamorous multitude. 

At last the Governor spoke; and, though his words were 
seemingly irrelevant, they were to the point. His voice had 
a note of martyrdom running through its senile quaver. 

“My rheumatism has been growing steadily worse these 
past months, William.” 

“I am sorry, father,” said Billy, gently. 

“And I am nearly seventy-eight. I am getting to be an 
old man. I can recall the names of but two or three who 
were in public life during My Administration. What did you 
say is the nature of this position that is offered you, William?” 

“A Federal judgeship, father. I believe it is considered 
to be a somewhat flattering tender. It is outside of politics 
and wire-pulling, you know.” 

“No doubt, no doubt. Few of the Pembertons have en- 
gaged in professional life for nearly a century. None of 
them have ever held Federal positions. They have been land- 
holders, slave-owners, and planters on a large scale. One or 
two of the Derwents — your mother's family — were in the 
law. Have you decided to accept this appointment, Wil- 
liam?” 

“I am thinking it over,” said Billy, slowly, regarding the 
ash of his cigar. 

“You have been a good son to me,” continued the Gov- 
ernor, stirring his pipe with the handle of a penholder. 


192 


Roads of Destiny 

'‘I’ve been your son all my life/’ said Billy, darkly. 

“I am often gratified,” piped the Governor, betraying a 
touch of complacency, ‘‘by being congratulated upon having 
a son with such sound and sterling qualities. Especially in 
this, our native town, is your name linked with mine in the 
talk of our citizens.” 

“I never knew anyone to forget the vinculum,” murmured 
Billy, unintelligibly. 

“Whatever prestige,” pursued the parent, “I may be pos- 
sessed of, by virtue of my name and services to the state, 
has been yours to draw upon freely. I have not hesitated to 
exert it in your behalf whenever opportunity offered. And 
you have deserved it, William. You’ve been the best of sons. 
And now this appointment comes to take you away from me. 
I have but a few years left to live. I am almost dependent 
upon others now, even in walking and dressing. What would 
I do without you, my son?” 

The Governor’s pipe dropped to the floor, A tear trickled 
from his eye. His voice had risen, and crumbled to a 
weakling falsetto, and ceased. He was an old, old man about 
to be bereft of the son that cherished him. 

Billy rose, and laid his hand upon the Governor’s shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, father,” he said, cheerfully. “I’m not 
going to accept. Elmville is good enough for me. I’ll write 
to-night and decline it.” 

At the next interchange of devoirs between the Governor 
and General Defl’enbaugh on Lee Avenue, His Excellency, 
with a comfortable air of self-satisfaction, spoke of the ap- 
pointment that had been tendered to Billy. 

The General whistled. 

“That’s a plum for Billy,” he shouted. “Who’d have 
thought that Billy — but, confound it, it’s been in him all the 
time. It’s a boost for Elmville. It’ll send real estate up. 


193 


The Emancipation of Billy 

It's an honour to our state. It’s a compliment to the South. 
We've all been blind about Billy. When does he leave? We 
must have a reception. Great Gatlings! that job’s eight thou- 
sand a year! There’s been a car-load of lead-pencils worn 
to stubs figuring on those appointments. Think of it! Our 
little, wood-sawing, mealy-mouthed Billy ! Angel unawares 
doesn’t begin to express it. Elmville is disgraced forever 
unless she lines up in a hurry for ratification and apology.” 

The venerable Moloch smiled fatuously. He carried the 
fire with which to consume all these tributes to Billy, the 
smoke of which would ascend as an incense to himself. 

“William,” said the Governor, with modest pride, “has 
declined the appointment. He refuses to leave me in my old 
age. He is a good son.” 

The General swung around, and laid a large forefinger upon 
the bosom of his friend. Much of the General’s success had 
been due to his dexterity in establishing swift lines of com- 
munication between cause and effect. 

“Governor,” he said, with a keen look in his big, ox-like 
eyes, “you’ve been complaining to Billy about your rheuma- 
tism.” 

“My dear General,” replied the Governor, stiffly, “my 
son is forty-two. He is quite capable of deciding such ques- 
tions for himself. And I, as his parent, feel it my duty to 
state that your remark about — er — rheumatism is a mighty 
poor shot from a very small bore, sir, aimed at a purely per- 
sonal and private affliction.” 

“If you will allow me,” retorted the General, “you’ve 
afflicted the public with it for some time; and ’twas no small 
bore, at that.” 

This first tiff between the two old comrades might have 
grown into something more serious, but for the fortunate in- 
terruption caused by the ostentatious approach of Colonel 


194 


Hoads of Destiny 

Titus and another one of the court retinue from the right 
county, to whom the General confided the coddled statesman 
and went his way. 

After Billy had so effectually entombed his ambitions, and 
taken the veil, so to speak, in a sonnery, he was surprised 
to discover how much lighter of heart and happier he felt. 
He realized what a long, restless struggle he had maintained, 
and how much he had lost by failing to cull the simple but 
wholesome pleasures by the way. His heart warmed now to 
Elmville and the friends who had refused to set him upon 
a pedestal. It was better, he began to think, to be “Billy” 
and his father’s son, and to be hailed familiarly by cheery 
neighbours and grown-up playmates, than to be “Your Hon- 
our,” and sit among strangers, hearing, maybe, through the 
arguments of learned counsel, that old man’s feeble voice 
crying: “What would I do without you, my son?” 

Billy began to surprise his acquaintances by whistling as 
he walked up the street; others he astounded by slapping 
them disrespectfully upon their backs and raking up old 
anecdotes he had not had the time to recollect for years. 
Though he hammered away at his law cases as thoroughly as 
ever, he found more time for relaxation and the company of 
his friends. Some of the younger set were actually after 
him to join the golf club. A striking proof of his abandon- 
ment to obscurity was his adoption of a most undignified, 
rakish, little soft hat, reserving the “plug” for Sundays and 
state occasions. Billy was beginning to enjoy Elmville, 
though that irreverent burgh had neglected to crown him with 
bay and myrtle. 

All the while uneventful peace pervaded Elmville. The 
Governor continued to make his triumphal parades to the 
post-office with the General as chief marshal, for the slight 
squall that had rippled their friendship had, to all indications, 
been forgotten by both. 


195 


The Emancipation of Billy 

But one day Elmville woke to sudden excitement. The 
news had come that a touring presidential party would hon- 
our Elmville by a twenty-minute stop. The Executive had 
promised a five-minute address from the balcony of the Palace 
Hotel. 

Elmville arose as one man — that man being, of course. 
General DefFenbaugh — to receive becomingly the chieftain 
of all the clans. The train with the tiny Stars and Stripes 
fluttering from the engine pilot arrived. Elmville had done 
her best. There were bands, flowers, carriages, uniforms, 
banners, and committees without end. High-school girls in 
white frocks impeded the steps of the party with roses strewn 
nervously in bunches. The chieftain had seen it all before — 
scores of times. He could have pictured it exactly in advance, 
from the Blue-and-Gray speech down to the smallest rose- 
bud. Yet his kindly smile of interest greeted Elmville’s dis- 
play as if it had been the only and original. 

In the upper rotunda of the Palace Hotel the town’s most 
illustrious were assembled for the honour of being presented 
to the distinguished guests previous to the expected address. 
Outside, Elmville’s inglorious but patriotic masses filled the 
streets. 

Here, in the hotel General DefFenbaugh was holding in 
reserve Elmville’s trump card. Elmville knew; for the trump 
was a fixed one, and its lead consecrated by archaic custom. 

At the proper moment Governor Pemberton, beautifully 
venerable, magnificently antique, tall, paramount, stepped 
forward upon the arm of the General. 

Elmville watched and harked with bated breath. Never 
until now — when a Northern President of the United States 
should clasp hands with ex-war-Governor Pemberton would 
the breach be entirely closed — would the country be made 
one and indivisible — no North, not much South, very little 
East, and no West to speak of. So Elmville excitedly scraped 


196 


Hoads of Destiny 

kalsomine from the walls of the Palace Hotel with its Sun- 
day best, and waited for the Voice to speak. 

And Billy ! We had nearly forgotten Billy. He was cast 
for Son, and he waited patiently for his cue. He carried 
his “plug” in his hand, and felt serene. He admired his 
father's striking air and pose. After all, it was a great 
deal to be son of a man who could so gallantly hold the po- 
sition of a cynosure for three generations. 

General Deffenbaugh cleared his throat. Elmville opened 
its mouth, and squirmed. The chieftain with the kindly, fate- 
ful face was holding out his hand, smiling. Ex-war-Gov- 
ernor Pemberton extended his own across the chasm. But 
what was this the General was saying? 

“Mr. President, allow me to present to you one who has 
the honour to be the father of our foremost, distinguished 
citizen, learned and honoured jurist, beloved townsman, and 
model Southern gentleman — the Honourable William B. Pem- 
berton.” 


XV 


THE ENCHANTED KISS 

But a clerk in the Cut-rate Drug Store was Samuel Tansey, 
yet his slender frame was a pad that enfolded the passion 
of Romeo, the gloom of Lara, the romance of D’Artagnan, 
and the desperate inspiration of Melnotte. Pity, then, that 
he had been denied expression, that he was doomed to the 
burden of utter timidity and diffidence, that Fate had set him 
tongae-tied and scarlet before the muslin-clad angels whom 
he adored and vainly longed to rescue, clasp, comfort, and 
subdue. 

The clock’s hands were pointing close upon the hour of 
ten while Tansey was playing billiards with a number of his 
friends. On alternate evenings he was released from duty 
at the store after seven o’clock. Even among his fellow- 
men Tansey was timorous and constrained. In his imagina- 
tion he had done valiant deeds and performed acts of dis- 
tinguished gallantry; but in fact he was a sallow youth of 
twenty-three, with an over-modest demeanor and scant vo- 
cabulary. 

When the clock struck ten, Tansey hastily laid down his 
cue and struck sharply upon the show-case with a coin for 
the attendance to come and receive the pay for his score. 

“What’s your hurry, Tansey?” called one. “Got another 
engagement ?” 

“Tansey got an engagement!” echoed another. “Not on 
your life. Tansey ’s got to get home at Motten by her Peek’s 
orders.” 


197 


198 


Roads of Destiny 

“It’s no such thing/’ chimed in a pale youth, taking a 
large cigar from his mouth; “Tansey’s afraid to be late 
because Miss Katie might come down stairs to unlock the 
door, and kiss him in the hall.” 

This delicate piece of raillery sent a fiery tingle into 
Tansey’s blood, for the indictment was true — barring the 
kiss. That was a thing to dream of; to wildly hope for; 
but too remote and sacred a thing to think of lightly. 

Casting a cold and contemptuous look at the speaker — a 
punishment commensurate with his own diffident spirit — Tan- 
sey left the room, descending the stairs into the street. 

For two years he had silently adored Miss Peek, wor- 
shipping her from a spiritual distance through which her 
attractions took on stellar brightness and mystery. Mrs. Peek 
kept a few choice boarders, among whom was Tansey. The 
other young men romped with Katie, chased her with crickets 
in their fingers, and “jollied” her with an irreverent freedom 
that turned Tansey’s heart into cold lead in his bosom. The 
signs of his adoration were few — a tremulous “Good morn- 
ing,” stealthy glances at her during meals, and occasionally 
(Oh, rapture!) a blushing, delirious game of cribbage with 
her in the parlour on some rare evening when a miraculous 
lack of engagement kept her at home. Kiss him in the hall! 
Aye, he feared it, but it was an ecstatic fear such as Elijah 
must have felt when the chariot lifted him into the unknown. 

But to-night the gibes of his associates had stung him to 
a feeling of forward, lawless mutiny; a defiant, challenging, 
atavistic recklessness. Spirit of corsair, adventurer, lover, 
poet, bohemian, possessed him. The stars he saw above him 
seemed no more unattainable, no less high, than the favour of 
Miss Peek or the fearsome sweetness of her delectable lips. 
His fate seemed to him strangely dramatic and pathetic, and 
to call for a solace consonant with its extremity. A saloon 
Was near by, and to this he flitted, calling for absinthe—- 


The Enchanted Kiss 


199 


beyond doubt the drink most adequate to his mood — the 
tipple of the roue, the abandoned, the vainly sighing lover. 

Once he drank of it, and again, and then again until he 
felt a strange, exalted sense of non-participation in worldly 
affairs pervade him. Tansey was no drinker; his consumption 
of three absinthe anisettes within almost as few minutes pro- 
claimed his unproficiency in the art; Tansey was merely flood- 
ing with unproven liquor his sorrows; which record and tra- 
dition alleged to be drownable. 

Coming out upon the sidewalk, he snapped his fingers de- 
fiantly in the direction of The Peek homestead, turned the 
other way, and voyaged, Columbus-like, into the wilds of an 
enchanted street. Nor is the figure exorbitant, for, beyond 
his store the foot of Tansey had scarcely been set for years — - 
store and boarding-house; between these ports he was char- 
tered to run, and contrary currents had rarely deflected his 
prow. 

Tansey aimlessly protracted his walk, and, whether it was 
his unfamiliarity with the district, his recent accession of 
audacious errantry, or the sophistical whisper of a certain 
green-eyed fairy, he came at last to tread a shuttered, blank, 
and echoing thoroughfare, dark and unpeopled. And, sud- 
denly, this way came to an end (as many streets do in the 
Spanish-built, archaic town of San Antone), butting its head 
against an imminent, high, brick wall. No — the street still 
lived! To the right and to the left it breathed through slen- 
der tubes of exit — narrow, somnolent ravines, cobble paved 
and unlighted. Accommodating a rise in the street to the 
right was reared a phantam flight of five luminous steps of 
limestone, flanked by a wall of the same height and of the 
same material. 

Upon one of these steps Tansey seated himself and be- 
thought him of his love, and how she might never know she 
was his love. And of Mother Peek, fat, vigilant and kind; 


200 


Roads of Destiny 

not unpleased, Tansey thought, that he and Katie should play 
cribbage in the parlour together. For the Cut-rate had not 
cut his salary, which, sordily speaking, ranked him star 
boarder at the Peeks’. And he thought of Captain Peek, 
Katie’s father, a man he dreaded and abhorred; a genteel 
loafer and spendthrift, battening upon the labour of his 
women-folk; a very queer fish, and, according to repute, not 
of the freshest. 

The night had turned chill and foggy. The heart of the 
town, with its noises, was left behind. Reflected from the 
high vapours, its distant lights were manifest in quivering, 
cone-shaped streamers, in questionable blushes of unnamed 
colours, in unstable, ghostly waves of far, electric flashes. 
Now that the darkness was become more friendly, the wall 
against which the street splintered developed a stone coping 
topped with an armature of spikes. Beyond it loomed what 
appeared to be the acute angles of mountain peaks, pierced 
here and there by little lambent parallelograms. Considering 
this vista, Tansey at length persuaded himself that the seem- 
ing mountains were, in fact, the convent of Santa Mercedes, 
with which ancient and bulky pile he was better familiar 
from different coigns of view. A pleasant noise of singing 
in his ears reenforced his opinion. High, sweet, holy carol- 
ling, far and harmonious and uprising, as of sanctified nuns 
at their responses. At what hour did the Sisters sing? He 
tried to think — was it six, eight, twelve? Tansey leaned 
his back against the limestone wall and wondered. Strange 
things followed. The air was full of white, fluttering pigeons 
that circled about, and settled upon the convent wall. The 
wall blossomed with a quantity of shining green eyes that 
blinked and peered at him from the solid masonry. A pink, 
classic nymph came from an excavation in the cavernous road 
and danced, barefoot and airy, upon the ragged flints. The 
sky was traversed by a company of beribboned cats, marching 


The Enchanted Kiss 


201 


in stupendous, aerial procession. The noise of singing grew 
louder; an illumination of unseasonable fireflies danced past, 
and strange whispers came out of the dark without meaning 
or excuse. 

Without amazement Tansey took note of these phenomena. 
He was on some new plane of understanding, though his mind 
seemed to him clear and, indeed, happily tranquil. 

A desire for movement and exploration seized him: he rose 
and turned into the black gash of street to his right. For a 
time the high wall formed one of its boundaries; but further 
on, two rows of black-windowed houses closed it in. 

Here was the city's quarter once given over to the Spaniard, 
Here were still his forbidding abodes of concrete and adobe, 
standing cold and indomitable against the century. From 
the murky fissure, the eye saw, flung against the sky, the tan- 
gled filigree of his Moorish balconies. Through stone arch- 
ways breaths of dead, vault-chilled air coughed upon him; his 
feet struck jingling iron rings in staples stone-buried for half 
a cycle. Along these paltry avenues had swaggered the ar- 
rogant Don, had caracoled and serenaded and blustered while 
the tomahawk and the pioneer’s rifle were already uplifted to 
expel him from a continent. And Tansey, stumbling through 
this old-world dust, looked up, dark as it was, and saw Anda- 
lusian beauties glimmering on the balconies. Some of them 
were laughing and listening to the goblin music that still 
followed; others harked fearfully through the night, trying to 
catch the hoof beats of Caballeros whose last echoes from 
those stones had died away a century ago. Those women were 
silent, but Tansey heard the jangle of horseless bridle-bits, 
the whirr of riderless rowels, and, now and then, a muttered 
malediction in a foreign tongue. But he was not frightened. 
Shadows, nor shadows of sounds could daunt him. Afraid? 
No. Afraid of Mother Peek? Afraid to face the girl of 
his heart? Afraid of tipsy Captain Peek? Nay! nor of 


202 


Roads of Destiny 

these apparitions, nor of that spectral singing that always 
pursued him. Singing! He would show them! He lifted 
up a strong and untuneful voice: 

“When you hear them bells go tingalingling,” 

serving notice upon those mysterious agencies that if it should 
come to a face-to-face encounter 

“There’ll be a hot time 
In the old town 
To-night !” 

How long Tansey consumed in treading this haunted byway 
was not clear to him, but in time he emerged into a more 
commodious avenue. When within a few yards of the corner 
he perceived, through a window, that a small confectionery 
of mean appearance was set in the angle. His same glance 
that estimated its meagre equipment, its cheap soda-water 
fountain and stock of tobacco and sweets, took cognizance of 
Captain Peek within lighting a cigar at a swinging gaslight. 

As Tansey rounded the corner Captain Peek came out, and 
they met vis-a-vis . An exultant joy filled Tansey when he 
found himself sustaining the encounter with implicit courage. 
Peek, indeed! He raised his hand, and snapped his fingers 
loudly. 

It was Peek himself who quailed guiltily before the valiant 
mien of the drug clerk. Sharp surprise and a palpable fear 
bourgeoned upon the Captain’s face. And, verily, that face 
was one to rather call up such expressions upon the faces of 
others. The face of a libidinous heathen idol, small eyed, 
with carven folds in the heavy jowls, and a consuming, pagan 
license in its expression. In the gutter just beyond the store 
Tansey saw a closed carriage standing with its back toward 
him and a motionless driver perched in his place. 

“Why, it’s Tansey !” exclaimed Captain Peek. “How 
are you, Tansey? H-have a cigar, Tansey ?” 


The Enchanted Kiss 


203 


“Why, it’s Peek!” cried Tansey, jubilant at his own temerity. 
“What deviltry arc you up to now, Peek? Back streets and a 
closed carriage! Fie! Peek!” 

“There's no one in the carriage,” said the Captain, smoothly. 

“Everybody out of it is in luck,” continued Tansey, aggres- 
sively. “I’d love for you to know. Peek, that I’m not stuck on 
you. You’re a bottle-nosed scoundrel.” 

“Why, the little rat’s drunk!” cried the Captain, joyfully; 
“only drunk, and I thought he was on ! Go home, Tansey, and 
quit bothering grown persons on the street.” 

But j ust then a white-clad figure sprang out of the carriage, 
and a shrill voice — Katie’s voice — sliced the air: “Sam* 
Sam ! — help me, Sam !” 

Tansey sprang toward her, but Captain Peek interposed his 
bulky form. Wonder of wonders ! the whilom spiritless youth 
struck out with his right, and the hulking Captain went over in 
a swearing heap. Tansey flew to Katie, and took her in his 
arms like a conquering knight. She raised her face, and he 
kissed her — violets ! electricity ! caramels ! champagne ! Here 
was the attainment of a dream that brought no disenchant^ 
ment. 

“Oh, Sam,” cried Katie, when she could, “I knew you would 
come to rescue me. What do you suppose the mean things were 
going to do with me?” 

“Have your picture taken,” said Tansey, wondering at the 
foolishness of his remark. 

“No, they were going to eat me. I heard them talking about 
it.” 

“Eat you!” said Tansey, after pondering a moment. “That 
can’t be ; there’s no plates.” 

But a sudden noise warned him to turn. Down upon him 
were bearing the Captain and a monstrous long-bearded dwarf 
in a spangled cloak and red trunk-hose. The dwarf leaped 
twenty feet and clutched him. The Captain seized Katie and 


204 


Roads of Destiny 

hurled her, shrieking, back into the carriage, himself followed, 
and the vehicle dashed away. The dwarf lifted Tansey high 
above his head and ran with him into the store. Holding him 
with one hand, he raised the lid of an enormous chest half 
filled with cakes of ice, flung Tansey inside, and closed down 
the cover. 

The force of the fall must have been great, for Tansey 
lost consciousness. When his faculties revived his first sensa- 
tion was one of severe cold along his back and limbs. Open- 
ing his eyes, he found himself to be seated upon the limestone 
steps still facing the wall and convent of Santa Mercedes. 
His first thought was of the ecstatic kiss from Katie. The 
outrageous villainy of Captain Peek, the unnatural mystery 
of the situation, his preposterous conflict with the improbable 
dwarf — these tilings roused and angered him, but left no 
impression of the unreal. 

“Til go back there to-morrow,” he grumbled aloud, “and 
knock the head off that comioropera squab. Running out 
and picking up perfect strangers, and shoving them into cold 
storage !” 

But the kiss remained uppermost in his mind. “I might 
have done that long ago,” he mused. “She liked it, too. 
She called me ‘Sam' four times. I’ll not go up that street 
again. Too much scrapping. Guess I’ll move down the other 
way. Wonder what she meant by saying they were going 
to eat her !” 

Tansey began to feel sleepy, but after a while he decided 
to move along again. This time he ventured into the street 
to his left. It ran level for a distance, and then dipped 
gently downward, opening into a vast, dim, barren space — 
the old Military Plaza. To his left, some hundred yards 
distant, he saw a cluster of flickering lights along the Plaza’s 
border. He knew the locality at once. 

Huddled within narrow confines were the remnants of the 


The Enchanted Kiss 


205 


once-famous purveyors of the celebrated Mexican national 
cookery. A few years before, their nightly encampments 
upon the historic Alamo Plaza, in the heart of the city, had 
been a carnival, a saturnalia that was renowned throughout 
the land. Then the caterers numbered hundreds; the patrons 
thousands. Drawn by the coquettish senoritas, the music of 
the weird Spanish minstrels, and the strange piquaqj Mexi- 
can dishes served at a hundred competing tables, crowds 
thronged the Alamo Plaza all night. Travellers, rancheros, 
family parties, gay gasconading rounders, sightseers and 
prowlers of polyglot, owlish San Antone mingled there at 
the centre of the city's fun and frolic. The popping of corks, 
pistols, and questions; the glitter of eyes, jewels and daggers; 
the ring of laughter and coin — these were the order of the 
night. 

But now no longer. To some half-dozen tents, fires, and 
tables had dwindled the picturesque festival, and these had 
been relegated to an ancient disused plaza. 

Often had Tansey strolled down to these stands at night 
to partake of the delectable cliili-c on-car ne , a dish evolved by 
the genius of Mexico, composed of delicate meats minced 
with aromatic herbs and the poignant chili Colorado — a com- 
pound full of singular savour and a fiery zest delightful to 
the Southron's palate. 

The titillating odour of this concoction came now, on the 
breeze, to the nostrils of Tansey, awakening in him hunger 
for it. As he turned in that direction he saw a carriage dash 
up to the Mexicans’ tents out of the gloom of the Plaza. Some 
figures moved back and forward in the uncertain light of the 
lanterns, and then the carriage was driven swiftly away. 

Tansey approached, and sat at one of the tables covered 
with gaudy oil-cloth. Traffic was dull at the moment. A 
few half-grown boys noisily fared at another table; the Mex- 
icans hung listless and phlegmatic about their wares. And 


206 


Roads of Destiny 

it was still. The night hum of the city crowded to the wall 
of dark buildings surrounding the Plaza, and subsided to an 
indefinite buzz through which sharply perforated the crackle 
of the languid fires and the rattle of fork and spoon. A 
sedative wind blew from the southeast. The starless firma- 
ment pressed down upon the earth like a leaden cover. 

In all that quiet Tansey turned his head suddenly, and 
saw, without disquietude, a troop of spectral horsemen deploy 
into the Plaza and charge a luminous line of infantry that 
advanced to sustain the shock. He saw the fierce flame of 
cannon and small arms, but heard no sound. The careless 
victuallers lounged vacantly, not deigning to view the con- 
flict. Tansey mildly wondered to what nations these mute 
combatants might belong; turned his back to them and or- 
dered his chili and coffee from the Mexican woman who ad- 
vanced to serve him. This woman was old and careworn; 
her face was lined like the rind of a cantaloupe. She fetched 
the viands from a vessel set by the smouldering fire, and then 
retired to a tent, dark within, that stood near by. 

Presently Tansey heard a turmoil in the tent; a wailing, 
broken-hearted pleading in the harmonious Spanish tongue, 
and then two figures tumbled out into the light of the lan- 
terns. One was the old woman; the other was a man clothed 
with a sumptuous and flashing splendour. The woman seemed 
to clutch and beseech from him something against his will. 
The man broke from her and struck her brutally back into 
the tent, where she lay, whimpering and invisible. Observing 
Tansey, he walked rapidly to the table where he sat. Tansey 
recognized him to be Ramon Torres, a Mexican, the proprietor 
of the stand he was patronizing. 

Torres was a handsome, nearly full-blooded descendant of 
the Spanish, seemingly about thirty years of age, and of a 
haughty, but extremely courteous demeanour. To-night he 
was dressed with signal manificence. His costume was that 


The Enchanted Kiss 


207 


of a triumphant matador, made of purple velvet almost hidden 
by jeweled embroidery. Diamonds of enormous size flashed 
upon his garb and his hands. He reached for a chair, and, 
seating himself at the opposite side of the table, began to 
roll a finical cigarette. 

“Ah, Meester Tansee,” he said, with a sultry fire in his 
silky, black eye, “I give myself pleasure to see you this even- 
ing. Meester Tansee, you have many times come to eat at my 
table. I theenk you a safe man — a verree good friend. How 
much would it please you to leeve forever ?” 

“Not come back any more?” inquired Tansey. 

“No; not leave — leeve; the not-to-die.” 

“I would call that,” said Tansey, “a snap.” 

Torres leaned his elbows upon the table, swallowed a mouth- 
ful of smoke, and spake — each word being projected in a 
little puff of gray. 

“How old do you theenk I am, Meester Tansee?” 

“Oh, twenty-eight or thirty.” 

“Thees day,” said the Mexican, “ees my birthday. I am 
four hundred and three years of old to-day.” 

“Another proof,” said Tansey, airily, “of the healthfulness 
of our climate.” 

“Eet is not the air. I am to relate to you a secret of verree 
fine value. Listen me, Meester Tansee. At the age of twent- 
ty-three I arrive in Mexico from Spain. When? In the 
year fifteen hundred nineteen, with the soldados of Hernando 
Cortez. I come to thees country seventeen fifteen. I saw 
your Alamo reduced. It was like yesterday to me. Three 
hundred ninety-six year ago I learn the secret always to 
leeve. Look at these clothes I wear — at these diamantes. 
Do you theenk I buy them with the money I make with selling 
the chili- c on- c arm e, Meester Tansee?” 

“I should think not,” said Tansey, promptly. Torres 
laughed loudly. 


208 


Roads of Destiny 

“Valgame Dios! but I do. But it not the kind you eating 
iiow. I make a deeferent kind, the eating of which makes 
men to always leeve. What do you think! One thousand 
people I supply — diez pesos each one pays me the month. 
You see! ten thousand pesos everee month! Que diable! how 
not I wear the fine ropa! You see that old woman try to 
hold me back a little while ago? That ees my wife. When 
I marry her she is young — seventeen year — bonita. Like 
the rest she ees become old and — wdiat you say! — tough? 
I am the same — young all the time. To-night I resolve to 
dress myself and find another wife befitting my age. This 
old woman try to scr-r-ratch my face. Ha! ha! Meester 
Tansee — same way they do entre los Americanos ” 

“And this health-food you spoke of?” said Tansey. 

“Hear me,” said Torres, leaning over the table until he 
lay fiat upon it; “eet is the chili- con- came made not from the 
beef or the chicken, but from the flesh of the senorita — 
young and tender. That ees the secret. Everee month you 
must eat of it, having care to do so before the moon is full, 
and you will not die any times. See how I trust you, friend 
Tansee! To-night I have bought one young ladee — verree 
pretty — so fina , cjorda, blandita! To-morrow the chili will 
be ready. Ahora si! One thousand dollars I pay for thees 
young ladee. From an Americano I have bought — a verree 
tip-top man — el Capitan PeeJc — que es, SenorV* 

For Tansey had sprung to his feet, upsetting the chair. 
The words of Katie reverberated in his ears: “They’re going 
to eat me, Sam.” This, then, was the monstrous fate to which 
she had been delivered by her unnatural parent. The car- 
riage he had seen drive up from the Plaza was Captain Peek’s. 
Where was Katie? Perhaps already — 

Before he could decide what to do a loud scream came from 
the tent. The old Mexican woman ran out, a flashing knife 
in her hand. “I have released her,” she cried. “You shall 


The Enchanted Kiss 


209 


kill no more. They will hang you — ingrato — encantador !” 

Torres, with a hissing exclamation, sprang at her. 

“Ramoncito !” she shrieked; “once you loved me.” 

The Mexican’s arm raised and descended. “You are old,” 
he cried; and she fell and lay motionless. 

Another scream; the flaps of the tent were flung aside, and 
there stood Katie, white with fear, her wrists still bound with 
a cruel cord. 

“Sam!” she cried, “save me again!” 

Tansey rounded the table, and flung himself, with superb 
nerve, upon the Mexican. Just then a clangour began; the 
clocks of the city were tolling the midnight hour. Tansey 
clutched at Torres, and, for a moment, felt in his grasp 
the crunch of velvet and the cold facets of the glittering 
gems. The next instant, the bedecked Caballero turned in his 
hands to a shrunken, leather-visaged, white-bearded, old, old, 
screaming mummy, sandalled, ragged, and four hundred and 
three. The Mexican woman was crawling to her feet, and 
laughing. She shook her brown hand in the face of the whin- 
ing viejo . 

“Go, now,” she cried, “and seek your senorita. It was 
I, Ramoncito, who brought you to this. Within each moon 
you eat of the life-giving chili. It was I that kept the wrong 
time for you. You should have eaten yesterday instead of 
to-morrow. It is too late. Off with you, hombrel You are 
too old for me !” 

“This,” decided Tansey, releasing his hold of the gray- 
beard, “is a private family matter concerning age, and no 
business of mine.” 

With one of the table knives he hastened to saw asunder 
the fetters of the fair captive; and then, for the second time 
that night he kissed Katie Peek — tasted again the sweetness, 
the wonder, the thrill of it, attained once more the maximum 
af his incessant dreams. 


210 


Roads of Destiny 

The next instant an icy blade was driven deep between his 
shoulders; he felt his blood slowly congeal; heard the senile 
cackle of the perennial Spaniard; saw the Plaza rise and reel 
till the zenith crashed into the horizon — and knew no more. 

When Tansey opened his eyes again he was sitting upon 
those self-same steps gazing upon the dark bulk of the sleep- 
ing convent. In the middle of his back was still the acute, 
chilling pain. How had he been conveyed back there again? 
He got stiffly to his feet and stretched his cramped limbs. 
Supporting himself against the stonework he revolved in his 
mind the extravagant adventures that had befallen him each 
time he had strayed from the steps that night. In reviewing 
them certain features strained his credulity. Had he really 
met Captain Peek or Katie or the unparalleled Mexican in his 
wanderings — had he really encountered them under com- 
monplace conditions and his over-stimulated brain had sup- 
plied the incongruities? However that might be, a sudden, 
elating thought caused him an intense joy. Nearly all of us 
have, at some point in our lives — either to excuse our own 
stupidity or placate our consciences — promulgated some 
theory of fatalism. We have set up an intelligent Fate that 
works by codes and signals. Tansey had done likewise; and 
now he read, through the night's incidents, the finger-prints 
of destiny. Each excursion that he had made had led to the 
one paramount finale — to Katie and that kiss, which survived 
and grew strong and intoxicating in his memory. Clearly, 
Fate was holding up to him the mirror that night, calling 
him to observe what awaited him at the end of whichever 
road he might take. He immediately turned, and hurried 
homeward. 

Clothed in an elaborate, pale blue wrapper, cut to fit, Miss 
Katie Peek reclined in an armchair before a waning fire in 
he~ room. Her little, bare feet were thrust into house-shoes 


The Enchanted Kiss 


211 


rimmed with swan’s down. By the light of a small lamp 
she was attacking the society news of the latest Sunday paper. 
Some happy substance, seemingly indestructible, was being 
rhythmically crushed between her small white teeth. Miss 
Katie read of functions and furbelows, but she kept a vigilant 
ear for outside sounds and a frequent eye upon the clock 
over the mantel. At every footstep upon the asphalt side- 
walk her smooth, round chin would cease for a moment its 
regular rise and fall, and a frown of listening would pucker 
her pretty brows. 

At last she heard the latch of the iron gate click. She 
sprang up, tripped swiftly to the mirror, where she made 
a few of those feminine, flickering passes at her front hair 
and throat which are warranted to hypnotize the approaching 
guest. 

The door-bell rang. Miss Katie, in her haste, turned the 
blaze of the lamp lower instead of higher, and hastened noise- 
lessly down stairs into the hall. She turned the key, the 
door opened, and Mr. Tansey side-stepped in. 

“Why, the i-de-a !” exclaimed Miss Katie, “is this you, 
Mr. Tansey? It’s after midnight. Aren’t you ashamed to 
wake me up at such an hour to let you in? You’re just 
awful !" 

“I was late,” said Tansey, brilliantly. 

“I should think you were! Ma was awfully worried about 
you. When you weren’t in by ten, that hateful Tom McGill 
said you were out calling on another — said you were out 
calling on some young lady. I just despise Mr. McGill. 
Well, I’m not going to scold you any more, Mr. Tansey, if it 
is a little late — Oh ! I turned it the wrong way !” 

Miss Katie gave a little scream. Absent-mindedly she had 
turned the blaze of the lamp entirely out instead of higher. 
It was very dark. 

Tansey heard a musical, soft giggle, and breathed an em- 


212 Roads of Destiny 

trancing odour of heliotrope. A groping light hand touched 
his arm. 

“How awkward I was! Can you find your way — Sam?” 

“I — I think I have a match, Miss K-Katie.” 

A scratching sound; a flame; a glow of light held at arm’s 
length by the recreant follower of Destiny illuminating a 
tableau which shall end the ignominious chronicle — a maid 
with unkissed, curling, contemptuous lips slowly lifting the 
lamp chimney and allowing the wick to ignite; then waving a 
scornful and abjuring hand toward the staircase — the un- 
happy Tansey, erstwhile champion in the prophetic lists of 
fortune, ingloriously ascending to his just and certain doom, 
while (let us imagine) half within the wings stands the im- 
minent figure of Fate jerking wildly at the wrong strings, 
%nd mixing things up in her usual able manner. 


XVI 


A DEPARTMENTAL CASE 

In Texas you may travel a thousand miles in a straight 
line. If your course is a crooked one, it is likely that both 
the distance and your rate of speed may be vastly increased. 
Clouds there sail serenely against the wind. The whip-poor- 
will delivers its disconsolate cry with the notes exactly re- 
versed from those of his Northern brother. Given a drought 
and a subsequently lively rain, and lo ! from a glazed and 
stony soil will spring in a single night blossomed lilies, mir- 
aculously fair. Tom Green County was once the standard 
of measurement. I have forgotten how many New Jerseys 
and Rhode Islands it was that could have been stowed away 
and lost in its chaparral. But the legislative axe has slashed 
Tom Green into a handful of counties hardly larger than 
European kingdoms. The legislature convenes at Austin, near 
the centre of the state; and, while the representative from the 
Rio Grande country is gathering his palm-leaf fan and his 
linen duster to set out for the capital, the Pan -handle solon 
winds his muffler above his well-buttoned overcoat and kicks 
the snow from his well-greased boots ready for the same jour- 
ney. All this merely to hint that the big ex-republic of the 
Southwest forms a sizable star on the flag, and to prepare for 
the corollary that things sometimes happen there uncut to 
pattern and unfettered by metes and bounds. 

The Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History of 
the State of Texas was an official of no very great or very 
small importance. The past tense is used, for now he is 

213 


214 


Roads of Destiny 

Commissioner of Insurance alone. Statistics and history are 
no longer proper nouns in the government records. 

In the year 188-, the governor appointed Luke Coonrod 
Standifer to be the head of this department. Standifer was 
then fifty-five years of age, and a Texan to the core. His 
father had been one of the state's earliest settlers and pioneers. 
Standifer himself had served the commonwealth as Indian 
fighter, soldier, ranger, and legislator. Much learning he did 
not claim, but he had drank pretty deep of the spring of 
experience; 

If other grounds were less abundant, Texas should be well 
up in the lists of glory as the grateful republic. For both as 
republic and state, it has busily heaped honours and solid 
rewards upon its sons who rescued it from the wilderness. 

Wherefore and therefore, Luke Coonrod Standifer, son of 
Ezra Standifer, ex-Terry ranger, simon-pure democrat, and 
lucky dweller in an unrepresented portion of the politico-geo- 
graphical map, was appointed Commissioner of Insurance, 
Statistics, and History. 

Standifer accepted the honour with some doubt as to the 
nature of the office he was to fill and his capacity for filling 
it — but he accepted, and by wire. He immediately set out 
from the little country town where he maintained (and was 
scarcely maintained by) a somnolent and unfruitful office of 
surveying and map-drawing. Before departing, he had looked 
up under the I’s, S’s and H’s in the “Encyclopaedia Britan- 
nica” what information and preparation toward his official 
duties that those weighty volumes afforded. 

A few weeks of incumbency diminished the new commis- 
sioner’s awe of the great and important office he had been 
called upon to conduct. An increasing familiarity with its 
workings soon restored him to his accustomed placid course of 
life. In his office was an old, spectacled clerk — a conse- 
crated, informed, able machine, who held his desk regardless 


215 


A Departmental Case 

of changes of administrative heads. Old Kauffman instructed 
his new chief gradually in the knowledge of the department 
without seeming to do so , and kept the wheels revolving with- 
out the slip of a cog. 

Indeed, the Department of Insurance, Statistics, and His- 
tory carried no great heft of the burden of state. Its main 
work was the regulating of the business done in the state by 
foreign insurance companies, and the letter of the law was 
its guide. As for statistics — well, you wrote letters to 
county officers, and scissored other people’s reports, and each 
year you got out a report of your own about the corn crop 
and the cotton crop and pecans and pigs and black and white 
population, and a great many columns of figures headed 
“bushels” and “acres” and “square miles,” etc. — and there 
you were. History? The branch was purely a receptive one. 
Old ladies interested in the science bothered you some with 
long reports of proceedings of their historical societies. Some 
twenty or thirty people would write you each year that they 
had secured Sam Houston’s pocket-knife or Santa Ana’s 
whisky-flask or Davy Crockett’s rifle — all absolutely authen- 
ticated — and demanded legislative appropriation to purchase. 
Most of the work in the history branch went into pigeon-holes. 

One sizzling August afternoon the commissioner reclined in 
his office chair, with his feet upon the long, official table cov- 
ered with green billiard cloth. The commissioner was smok- 
ing a cigar, and dreamily regarding the quivering landscape 
framed by the window that looked upon the treeless capitol 
grounds. Perhaps he was thinking of the rough and ready 
life he had led, of the old days of breathless adventure and 
movement, of the comrades who now trod other paths or had 
ceased to tread any, of the changes civilization and peace 
had brought, and, maybe, complacently, of the snug and com- 
fortable camp pitched for him under the dome of the capitol 
of the state that had not forgotten his services. 


216 


Roads of Destiny 

The business of the department was lax. Insurance was 
easy. Statistics were not in demand. History was dead. 
Old Kauffman, the efficient and perpetual clerk, had requested 
an infrequent half-holiday, incited to the unusual dissipation 
by the joy of having successfully twisted the tail of a Con- 
necticut insurance company that was trying to do business 
contrary to the edicts of the great Lone Star State. 

The office was very still. A few subdued noises trickled in 
through the open door from the other departments — a dull 
tinkling crash from the treasurer’s office adjoining, as a clerk 
tossed a bag of silver to the floor of the vault — the vague, 
intermittent clatter of a dilatory typewriter — a dull tapping 
from tlie state geologist’s quarters as if some woodpecker had 
flown in to bore for his prey in the cool of the massive build- 
ing — and then a faint rustle, and the light shuffling of the 
well-worn shoes along the hall, the sounds ceasing at the 
door toward which the commissioner’s lethargic back was 
presented. Following this, the sound of a gentle voice speak- 
ing words unintelligible to the commissioner’s somewhat dor^ 
mant comprehension, but giving evidence of bewilderment and 
hesitation. 

The voice was feminine; the commissioner was of the race 
of cavaliers who make salaam before the trail of a skirt with- 
out considering the quality of its cloth. 

There stood in the door a faded woman, one of the nu- 
merous sisterhood of the unhappy. She was dressed all in 
black — poverty’s perpetual mourning for lost joys. Her 
face had the contours of twenty and the lines of forty. She 
may have lived that intervening score of years in a twelve- 
month. There was about her yet an aurum of indignant, 
unappeased, protesting youth that shone faintly through the 
premature veil of unearned decline. 

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said the commissioner, gain- 


A Departmental Case 217 

ing his feet to the accompaniment of a great creaking and 
sliding of his chair. 

“Are you the governor, sir?” asked the vision of melan- 
choly. 

The commissioner hesitated at the end of his best bow, 
with his hand in the bosom of his double-breasted “frock.” 
Truth at last conquered. 

“Well, no, ma’am. I am not the governor. I have the 
honour to be Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics and His- 
tory. Is there anything, ma’am, I can do for you? Won’t 
you have a chair, ma’am ?” 

The lady subsided into the chair handed her, probably from 
purely physical reasons. She wielded a cheap fan — last 
token of gentility to be abandoned. Her clothing seemed to 
indicate a reduction almost to extreme poverty c She looked 
at the man who was not the governor, and saw kindliness 
and simplicity and a rugged, unadorned courtliness emanating 
from a countenance tanned and toughened by forty years of 
outdoor life. Also, she saw that his eyes were clear and 
strong and blue. Just so they had been when he used them 
to skim the horizon for raiding Kiowas and Sioux. His mouth 
was as set and firm as it had been on that day when he bearded 
the old Lion Sam Houston himself, and defied him during 
that season when secession was the theme. Now, in bearing 
and dress, Luke Coonrod Standifer endeavoured to do credit 
to the important arts and sciences of Insurance, Statistics, 
and History. He had abandoned the careless dress of his 
country home. Now, his broad-brimmed black slouch hat, and 
his long-tailed “frock” made him not the least imposing of 
the official family, even if his office was reckoned to stand at 
the tail of the list. 

“You wanted to see the governor, ma’am?” asked the com- 
missioner, with a deferential manner he always used toward 
the fair sex. 


218 


Roads of Destiny 

“I hardly know,” said the lady, hesitatingly. “I suppose 
so.” And then, suddenly drawn by the sympathetic look of 
the other, she poured forth the story of her need. 

It was a story so common that the public has come to look 
at its monotony instead of its pity. The old tale of an un- 
happy married life — made so by a brutal, conscienceless hus- 
band, a robber, a spendthrift, a moral coward and a bully, 
who failed to provide even the means of the barest existence. 
Yes, he had come down in the scale so low as to strike her. 
It happened only the day before — there was the bruise on 
one temple — she had offended his highness by asking for 
a little money to live on. And yet she must needs, woman- 
like, append a plea for her tyrant — he was drinking; he had 
rarely abused her thus when sober. 

“I thought,” mourned this pale sister of sorrow, “that may- 
be the state might be willing to give me some relief. I’ve 
heard of such things being done for the families of old settlers, 
I’ve heard tell that the state used to give land to the men who 
fought for it against Mexico, and settled up the country, and 
helped drive out the Indians. My father did all of that, and 
he never received anything. He never would take it. I 
thought the governor would be the one to see, and that’s why I 
came. If father was entitled to anything, they might let it 
come to me.” 

“It’s possible, ma’am,” said Standifer, “that such might 
be the case. But ’most all the veterans and settlers got their 
land certificates issued, and located long ago. Still, we can 
look that up in the land office, and be sure. Your father’s 
name, now, was — ” 

“Amos Colvin, sir.” 

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Standifer, rising and unbutton- 
ing his tight coat, excitedly. “Are you Amos Colvin’s 
daughter? Why, ma’am, Amos Colvin and me were thicker 
than two hoss thieves for more than ten years ! We fought 


A Departmental Case 219 

Kiowas, drove cattle,, and rangered side by side nearly all 
over Texas. I remember seeing yon once before, now. You 
were a kid, about seven, a-riding a little yellow pony up and 
down. Amos and me stopped at your home for a little grub 
when we were trailing that band of Mexican cattle thieves 
down through Karnes and Bee. Great tarantulas ! and you're 
Amos Colvin’s little girl ! Did you ever hear your father 
mention Luke Standifer — just kind of casually — °s if he’d 
met me once or twice?" 

A little pale smile flitted across the lady's white face. 

“It seems to me," she said, “that I don't remember hearing 
him talk about much else. Every day there was some story 
he had to tell about what he and you had done. Mighty near 
the last thing I heard him tell was about the time when the 
Indians wounded him, and you crawled out to him through 
the grass, with a canteen of water, while they — ” 

“Yes, yes — well — oh, that wasn't anything/' said Stands 
£er, “hemming" loudly and buttoning his coat again, briskly. 
“And now, ma'am, who was the infernal skunk — I beg your 
pardon, ma’am — who was the gentleman you married ?" 

“Benton Sharp." 

The commissioner plumped down again into his chair, with 
a groan. This gentle, sad little woman, in the rusty black 
gown, the daughter of his oldest friend, the wife of Benton 
Sharp ! Benton Sharp, one of the most noted “bad" men in 
that part of the state — a man who had been a cattle thief, 
an outlaw, a desperado, and was now a gambler, a swaggering 
bully, who plied his trade in the larger frontier towns, relying 
upon his record and the quickness of his gun play to maintain 
his supremacy. Seldom did any one take the risk of going 
“up against" Benton Sharp. Even the law officers were 
content to let him make his own terms of peace. Sharp was 
a ready and an accurate shot, and as lucky as a brand-new 
penny at coming clear from his scrapes. Standifer wondered 


220 


Roads of Destiny 

how this pillaging eagle ever came to be mated with Amos 
Colvin’s little dove, and expressed his wonder. 

Mrs. Sharp sighed. 

“You see, Mr. Standifer, we didn’t know anything about 
him, and he can be very pleasant and kind when he wants to. 
We lived down in the little town of Goliad. Benton came 
riding down that way, and stopped there a while. I reckon 
I was some better looking then than I am now. He was good 
to me for a whole year after we were married. He insured 
his life for me for five thousand dollars. But for the last 
six months he has done everything but kill me. I often wish 
he had done that, too. He got out of money for a while, and 
abused me shamefully for not having anything he could spend. 
Then father died, and left me the little home in Goliad. My 
husband made me sell that, and turned me out into the world. 
I’ve barely been able to live, for I’m not strong enough to 
work. Lately, I heard he was making money in San Antonio, 
so I went there, and found him, and asked for a little help. 
This,” touching the livid bruise on her temple, “is what he 
gave me. So I came on to Austin to see the governor. I 
once heard father say that there was some land, or a pension, 
coming to him from the state that he never would ask for.” 

Luke Standifer rose to his feet, and pushed his chair back. 
He looked rather perplexedly around the big office, with its 
handsome furniture. 

“It’s a long trail to follow,” he said, slowly, “trying to 
get back dues from the government. There’s red tape and 
lawyers and rulings and evidences and courts to keep you 
waiting. I’m not certain,” continued the commissioner, with 
a profoundly meditative frown, “whether this department 
that I’m the boss of has any jurisdiction or not. It’s only 
Insurance, Statistics, and History, ma’am, and it don’t sound 
as if it would cover the case. But sometimes a saddle blanket 


221 


A Departmental Case 

can be made to stretch. You keep your seat, just for a few 
minutes, ma'am, till I step into the next room and see about 
it.” 

The state treasurer was seated within his massive, com- 
plicated railings, reading a newspaper. Business for the day 
was about over. The clerks lolled at their desks, awaiting 
the closing hour. The Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, 
and History entered, and leaned in at the window. 

The treasurer, a little, brisk old man, with snow-white 
moustache and beard, jumped up youthfully and came forward 
to greet Standifer. They were friends of old. 

‘‘Uncle Frank,” said the commissioner, using the familiar 
name by which the historic treasurer was addressed by every 
Texan, “how much money have you got on hand?” 

The treasurer named the sum of the last balance down to 
the odd cents — something more than a million dollars. 

The commissioner whistled lowly, and his eyes grew hope- 
fully bright. 

“You know, or else you've heard of, Amos Colvin, Uncle 
Frank?” 

“Knew him well,” said the treasurer, promptly. “A good 
man. A valuable citizen. One of the first settlers in the 
Southwest.” 

“His daughter,” said Standifer, “is sitting in my office. 
She's penniless. She's married to Benton Sharp, a coyote 
and a murderer. He’s reduced her to want, and broken her 
heart. Her father helped build up this state, and it's the 
state's turn to help his child. A couple of thousand dollars 
will buy back her home and let her live in peace. The State 
of Texas can't afford to refuse it. Give me the money, Uncle 
Frank, and I’ll give it to her right away. We'll fix up the 
red-tape business afterward.” 

The treasurer looked a little bewildered. 


222 


Roads of Destiny 

“Why, Standifer,” he said, “you know I can't pay a cent 
out of the treasury without a warrant from the comptroller 
I can’t disburse a dollar without a voucher to show for it.” 

The commissioner betrayed a slight impatience. 

“I’ll give yea a voucher,” he declared. “What’s this job 
they’ve given me for? Am I just a knot on a mesquite stump? 
Can’t my office stand for it? Charge it up to Insurance and 
the other two sideshows. Don’t Statistics show that Amos 
Colvin came to this state when it was in the hands of Greasers 
and rattlesnakes and Comanches, and fought day and night 
to make a white man’s country of it? Don’t they show that 
Amos Colvin’s daughter is brought to ruin by a villain who’s 
trying to pull down what you and I and old Texans shed our 
blood to build up? Don’t History show that the Lone Star 
State never yet failed to grant relief to the suffering and 
oppressed children of the men who made her the grandest 
commonwealth in the Union? If Statistics and History don’t 
bear out the claim of Amos Colvin’s child I'll ask the next 
legislature to abolish my office. Come, now. Uncle Frank, let 
her have the money. I’ll sign the papers officially, if you 
say so; and then if the governor or the comptroller or the 
janitor or anybody else makes a kick, by the Lord I’ll refer 
the matter to the people, and see if they won’t indorse the 
act.” 

The treasurer looked sympathetic but shocked. The com- 
missioner’s voice had growm louder as he rounded off the 
sentences that, however praiseworthy they might be in senti- 
ment, reflected somewhat upon the capacity of the head of a 
more or less important department of state. The clerks were 
beginning to listen. 

“Now, Standifer,” said the treasurer, soothingly, “you 
know I’d like to help in this matter, but stop and think a 
moment, please. Every cent in the treasury is expended only 
by appropriation made by the legislature, and drawn out by 


223 


A Departmental Case 

checks issued by the comptroller. I can’t control the use of 
a cent of it. Neither can you. Your department isn’t dis- 
bursive — it isn’t even administrative — it’s purely clerical. 
The only way for the lady to obtain relief is to petition the 
legislature, and — ” 

“To the devil with the legislature,” said Standifer, turn- 
ing away. 

The treasurer called him back. 

“I’d be glad, Standifer, to contribute a hundred dollars 
personally toward the immediate expenses of Colvin’s daugh- 
ter.” He reached for his pocketbook. 

“Never mind. Uncle Frank,” said the commissioner, in a 
softer tone. “There’s no need of that. She hasn’t asked 
for anything of that sort yet. Besides, her case is in my 
hands. I see now what a little, rag-tag, bob-tail, gotch-eared 
department I’ve been put in charge of. It seems to be about 
as important as an almanac or a hotel register. But while 
I’m running it, it won’t turn away any daughters of Amos 
Colvin without stretching its jurisdiction to cover, if possible. 
You want to keep your eye on the Department of Insurance, 
Statistics, and History.” 

The commissioner returned to his office, looking thoughtful. 
He opened and closed an inkstand on his desk many times with 
extreme and undue attention before he spoke. “Why don’t 
you get a divorce?” he asked, suddenly. 

“I haven’t the money to pay for it,” answered the lady. 

“Just at present,” announced the commissioner, in a formal 
tone, “the powers of my department appear to be considerably 
string-halted. Statistics seem to be overdrawn at the bank, 
and History isn’t good for a square meal. But you’ve come 
to the right place, ma’am. The department will see you 
through. Where did you say your husband is, ma’am?” 

“He was in San Antonio yesterday. He is living there 
now.” 


224 


Roads of Destiny 

Suddenly the commissioner abandoned his official air. He 
Sook the faded little woman's hands in his, and spoke in the 
old voice he used on the trail and around campfires. 

*‘Your name's Amanda, isn't it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I thought so. I've heard your dad say it often enough. 
Well, Amanda, here’s your father’s best friend, the head of a 
big office in the state government, that’s going to help you out 
of your troubles. And here’s the old bushwhacker and cow- 
puncher that your father has helped out of scrapes time and 
time again wants to ask you a question. Amanda, have you 
got money enough to run you for the next two or three days:*” 

Mrs. Sharp’s white face flushed the least bit. 

“Plenty, sir — for a few days." 

“All right, then, ma’am. Now you go back where you are 
stopping here, and you come to the office again the day after 
to-morrow at four o’clock in the afternoon. Very likely by 
that time there will be something definite to report to you.” 
The commissioner hesitated, and looked a trifle embarrassed. 
“You said your husband had insured his life for $5,000. 
Do you know whether the premiums have been kept paid upon 
it or not?" 

“He paid for a whole year in advance about five months 
ago," said Mrs. Sharp. “I have the policy and receipts in 
my trunk." 

“Oh, that’s all right, then," said Standifer. “It’s best to 
look after things of that sort. Some day they may come in 
handy." 

Mrs. Sharp departed, and soon afterward Luke Standifer 
went down to the little hotel where he boarded and looked up 
the railroad time-table in the daily paper. Half an hour later 
he removed his coat and vest, and strapped a peculiarly con- 
structed pistol holster across his shoulders, leaving the re- 
ceptacle close under his left armpit. Into the holster he 


225 


A Departmental Case 

shoved a short-barrelled .44 calibre revolver. Putting on his 
clothes again, he strolled down to the station and caught the 
five-twenty afternoon train for San Antonio. 

The San Antonio Express of the following morning con- 
tained this sensational piece of news: 

BENTON SHARP MEETS HIS MATCH 

The Most Noted Desperado in Southwest Texas Shot to Death 
in tiie Gold Front Restaurant — Prominent State Official 
Successfully Defends Himself Against tiie Noted Bully — 
Magnificent Exhibition of Quick Gun Play. 

Last night about eleven o’clock Benton Sharp, with two other men, 
entered the Gold Front Restaurant and seated themselves at a table. 
Sharp had been drinking, and was loud and boisterous, as he always 
was when under the influence of liquor. Five minutes after the 
party was seated a tall, well-dressed, elderly gentleman entered the 
restaurant. Few present recognized the Honorable Luke Standifer, 
the recently appointed Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and 
History. 

Going over to the same side where Sharp was, Mr. Standifer pre- 
pared to take a seat at the next table. In hanging his hat upon 
one of the hooks along the wall he let it fall upon Sharp’s head. 
Sharp turned, being in an especially ugly humour, and cursed the 
other roundly. Mr. Standifer apologized calmly for the accident, 
but Sharp continued his vituperations. Mr. Standifer was observed 
to draw near and speak a few sentences to the desperado in so low 
a tone that no one else caught the words. Sharp sprang up, wild 
With rage. In the meantime Mr. Standifer had stepped some yards 
away, and was standing quietly with his arms folded across the breast 
of his loosely hanging coat. 

With that impetuous and deadly rapidity that made Sharp so 
dreaded, he reached for the gun he always carried in his hip pocket 

— a movement that has preceded the death of at least a dozen men 
at his hands. Quick as the motion was, the bystanders assert that 
it was met by the most beautiful exhibition of lightning gun-pulling 
ever witnessed in the Southwest. As Sharp’s pistol was being raised 

— and the act was really quicker than the eye could follow — a glit- 
tering .44 appeared as if by some conjuring trick in the right hand 
of Mr. Standifer, who, without a perceptible movement of his arm. 


226 Roads of Destiny 

shot Benton Sharp through the heart. It seems that the new Com- 
missioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History has been an old-time 
Indian fighter and ranger for many years, which accounts for the 
happy knack he has of handling a .44. 

It is not believed that Mr. Standifer will be put to any incon- 
venience beyond a necessary formal hearing to-day, as all the wit- 
nesses who were present unite in declaring that the deed was done 
in self-defence. 

When Mrs. Sharp appeared at the office of the commis- 
sioner, according to appointment, she found that gentleman 
calmly eating a golden russet apple. He greeted her without 
embarrassment and without hesitation at approaching the sub- 
ject that was the topic of the day. 

“I had to do it, ma’am,” he said, simply, “or get it my- 
self. Mr. Kauffman, ” he added, turning to the old clerk, 
“please look up the records of the Security Life Insurance 
Company and see if they are all right.” 

“No need to look,” grunted Kauffman, who had everything 
in his head. “It’s all O. K. They pay all losses within ten 
days.” 

Mrs. Sharp soon rose to depart. She had arranged to re- 
main in town until the policy was paid. The commissioner 
did not detain her. She was a woman, and he did not know 
just what to say to her at present. Best and time would 
bring her what she needed. 

But, as she was leaving, Luke Standifer indulged himself 
in an official remark: 

“The Department of Insurance, Statistics, and History, 
ma’am, has done the best it could with your case. ’Twas a 
case hard to cover according to red tape. Statistics failed, and 
History missed fire, but, if I may be permitted to say it, we 
came out particularly strong on Insurance.” 


XVII 


THE RENAISSANCE AT CHARLEROI 

GRANDEMONT CHARLES was a little Creole gentleman, 
aged thirty-four, with a bald spot on the top of his head and 
the manners of a prince. By day he was a clerk in a cotton 
broker’s office in one of those cold, rancid mountains of oozy 
brick, down near the levee in New Orleans. By night, in his 
three-story-high chambre gamier in the old French Quarter lie 
was again the last male descendant of the Charles family, 
that noble house that had lorded it in France, and had pushed 
its way smiling, rapiered, and courtly into Louisiana’s early 
and brilliant days. Of late years the Charleses had subsided 
into the more republican but scarcely less royally carried 
magnificence and ease of plantation life along the Mississippi. 
Perhaps Grandemont was even Marquis de Brasse. There 
was that title in the family. But a Marquis on seventy-five 
dollars per month! V raiment! Still, it has been done on 
less. 

Grandemont had saved out of his salary the sum of six 
hundred dollars. Enough, you would say, for any man to 
marry on. So, after a silence of two years on that subject, 
he reopened that most hazardous question to Mile. Adele 
Fauquier, riding down to Meade d’Or, her father’s plantation. 
Her answer was the same that it had been any time during 
the last ten years: “First find my brother. Monsieur 
Charles.” 

This time he had stood before her, perhaps discouraged by 
a love so long and hopeless, being dependent upon a con- 

227 


228 


Roads of Destiny 

tingency so unreasonable, and demanded to be told in simple 
words whether she loved him or no. x 

Adele looked at him steadily out of her gray eyes that 
betrayed no secrets and answered, a little more softly : 

“Grandemont, you have no right to ask that question unless 
you can do what I ask of you. Either bring back brother 
Victor to us or the proof that he died. ,, 

Somehow, though five times thus rejected, his heart was not 
so heavy when he left. She had not denied that she loved. 
Upon what shallow waters can the bark of passion remain 
afloat! Or, shall we play the doctrinaire, and hint that at 
thirty-four the tides of life are calmer and cognizant of many 
sources instead of but one — as at four-and-twenty ? 

Victor Fauquier would never be found. In those early days 
of his disappearance there was money to the Charles name, 
and Grandemont had spent the dollars as if they were pic- 
ayunes in trying to find the lost youth. Even then he had 
had small hope of success, for the Mississippi gives up a 
victim from its oily tangles only at the whim of its malign will. 

A thousand times had Grandemont conned in his mind the 
scene of Victor’s disappearance. And, at each time that 
Adele had set her stubborn but pitiful alternative against his 
suit, still clearer it repeated itself in his brain. 

The boy had been the family favourite; daring, winning, 
reckless. His unwise fancy had been captured by a girl on 
the plantation — the daughter of an overseer. Victor’s family 
was in ignorance of the intrigue, as far as it had gone. To 
save them the inevitable pain that his course promised, Grande- 
mont strove to prevent it. Omnipotent money smoothed the 
way. The overseer and his daughter left, between a sunset 
and dawn, for an undesignated bourne. Grandemont was con- 
fident that this stroke would bring the boy to reason. He rode 
over to Meade d’Or to talk with him. The two strolled out 
of the house and grounds, crossed the road, and, mounting the 


The Renaissance at Charleroi 


229 


levee, walked its broad path while they conversed. A thunder- 
cloud was hanging, imminent, above, but, as yet, no rain fell. 
At Grandemont’s disclosure of his interference in the clandes- 
tine romance, Victor attacked him, in a wild and sudden fury. 
Grandemont, though of slight frame, possessed muscles of 
iron. He caught the wrists amid a shower of blows descend- 
ing upon him, bent the lad backward and stretched him upon 
the levee path. In a little while the gust of passion was 
spent, and he was allowed to rise. Calm now, but a powdei 
mine where he had been but a whiff of the tantrums, Victoi 
extended his hand toward the dwelling house of Meade d’Or. 

“You and they/’ he cried, “have conspired to destroy my 
happiness. None of you shall ever look upon my face again.” 

Turing, he ran swiftly down the levee, disappearing in the 
darkness. Grandemont followed as well as he could, calling 
to him, but in vain. For longer than an hour he pursued the 
search. Descending the side of the levee, he penetrated the 
rank density of weeds and willows that undergrew the trees 
until the river’s edge, shouting Victor’s name. There was 
never an answer, though once he thought he heard a bubbling 
scream from the dun waters sliding past. Then the storm 
broke, and he returned to the house drenched and dejected. 

There he explained the boy’s absence sufficiently, he 
thought, not speaking of the tangle that had led to it, for he 
hoped that Victor would return as soon as his anger had 
cooled. Afterward, when the threat was made good and they 
saw his face no more, he found it difficult to alter his expla- 
nations of that night, and there clung a certain mystery to 
the boy’s reasons for vanishing as well as to the manner of it. 

It was on that night that Grandemont first perceived a new 
and singular expression in Adele’s eyes whenever she looked 
at him. And through the years following that expression 
was always there. He could not read it, for it was born of a 
thought she would never otherwise reveal. 


230 


Roads of Destiny 

Perhaps, if he had known that Adele had stood at the gate 
on that unlucky night, where she had followed, lingering, to 
await the return of her brother and lover, wondering why 
they had chosen so tempestuous an hour and so black a spot 
to hold converse — if he had known that a sudden flash of 
lightning had revealed to her sight that short, sharp struggle 
as Victor was sinking under his hands, he might have ex- 
plained everything, and she — 

I know not what she would have done. But one thing is 
clear — there was something besides her brother's disappear- 
ance between Grandemont’s pleadings for her hand and 
Adele’s “yes.” Ten years had passed, and what she had 
seen during the space of that lightning flash remained an in- 
delible picture. She had loved her brother, but was she hold- 
ing out for the solution of that mystery or for the “Truth”? 
Women have been known to reverence it, even as an abstract 
principle. It is said there have been a few who, in the matter 
of their affections, have considered a life to be a small thing 
as compared with a lie. That I do not know. But, I wonder, 
had Grandemont cast himself at her feet crying that his hand 
had sent Victor to the bottom of that inscrutable river, and 
that he could no longer sully his love with a lie, I wonder if 
— I wonder what she would have done ! 

But, Grandemont Charles, Arcadian little gentleman, never 
guessed the meaning of that look in Adele’s eyes; and from 
this last bootless payment of his devoirs he rode away as rich 
as ever in honour and love, but poor in hope. 

That was in September. It was during the first winter 
month that Grandemont conceived his idea of the renaissance . 
Since Adele would never be his, and wealth without her were 
useless trumpery, why need he add to that hoard of slowly 
harvested dollars ? Why should he even retain that hoard ? 

Hundreds were the cigarettes he consumed over his claret, 
sitting at the little polished tables in the Royal street cafes 


The Renaissance at Charleroi 


231 


while thinking over his plan. By and by he had it perfect. 
It would cost, beyond doubt, all the money he had, but — 
le jeu vaiit la chandelle — for some hours he would be once 
more a Charles of Charleroi. Once again should the nine- 
teenth of January, that most significant day in the fortunes 
of the house of Charles, be fittingly observed. On that date 
the French king had seated a Charles by his side at table; on 
that date Armand Charles, Marquis de Brasse, landed, like a 
brilliant meteor, in New Orleans; it was the date of his 
mother's wedding; of Grandemont’s birth. Since Grande- 
mont could remember until the breaking up of the family that 
anniversary had been the synonym for feasting, hospitality, 
and proud commemoration. 

Charleroi was the old family plantation, lying some twenty 
miles down the river. Years ago the estate had been sold to 
discharge the debts of its too-bountiful owners. Once again 
it had changed hands, and now the must and mildew of liti- 
gation had setttled upon it. A question of heirship was in the 
courts, and the dwelling house of Charleroi, unless the tales 
told of ghostly powdered and laced Charleses haunting its 
unechoing chambers were true, stood uninhabited. 

Grandemont found the solicitor in chancery who held the 
keys pending the decision. He proved to be an old friend of 
the family. Grandemont explained briefly that he desired to 
rent the house for two or three days. He wanted to give a 
dinner at his old home to a few friends. That was all. 

“Take it for a week — a month, if you will,” said the 
solicitor; “but do not speak to me of rental.” With a sigh 
he concluded: “The dinners I have eaten under that roof, 
mon fils !” 

There came to many' of the old, established dealers in 
furniture, china, silverware, decorations and household fittings 
at their stores on Canal, Chartres, St. Charles, and Royal 
Streets, a quiet young man with a little bald spot on the top 


232 


Roads of Destiny 

of his head, distinguished manners, and the eye of a connois- 
seur, who explained what he wanted. To hire the complete 
and elegant equipment of a dining-room, hall, reception-room, 
and cloak-rooms. The goods were to be packed and sent, by 
boat, to the Charleroi landing, and would be returned within 
three or four days. All damage or loss to be promptly paid 
for. 

Many of those old merchants knew Grandemont by sight, 
and the Charleses of old by association. Some of them were 
of Creole stock and felt a thrill of responsive sympathy with 
the magnificently indiscreet design of this impoverished clerk 
who would revive but for a moment the ancient flame of glory 
with the fuel of his savings. 

“Choose what you want,” they said to him. “Handle 
everything carefully. See that the damage bill is kept low, 
and the charges for the loan will not oppress you.” 

To the wine merchants next; and here a doleful slice was 
lopped from the six hundred. It was an exquisite pleasure 
to Grandemont once more to pick among the precious vintages. 
The champagne bins lured him like the abodes of sirens, but 
these he was forced to pass. With his six hundred he stood 
before them as a child with a penny stands before a French 
doll. But he bought with taste and discretion of other wines 

— Chablis, Moselle, Chateau d’Or, Hochheimer, and port of 
right age and pedigree. 

The matter of the cuisine gave him some studious hours 
until he suddenly recollected Andre — Andre, their old chef 

— the most sublime master of French Creole cookery in the 
Mississippi Valley. Perhaps he was yet somewhere about the 
plantation. The solicitor had told him that the place was still 
being cultivated, in accordance with a compromise agreement 
between the litigants. 

On the next Sunday after the thought Grandemont rode, 
horseback, down to Charleroi. The big, square house with 


The Renaissance at Charleroi 233 

its two long ells looked blank and cheerless with its closed 
shutters and doors. 

The shrubbery in the yard was ragged and riotous. Fallen 
leaves from the grove littered the walks and porches. Turn- 
ing down the lane at the side of the house, Grandemont rode 
on to the quarters of the plantation hands. He found the 
workers just streaming back from church, careless, happy, 
and bedecked in gay yellows, reds, and blues. 

Yes, Andre was still there; his wool a little grayer; his 
mo'ith as wide; his laughter as ready as ever. Grandemont 
told him of his plan, and the old chef swayed with pride and 
delight. With a sigh of relief, knowing that he need have 
no further concern until the serving of that dinner was an- 
nounced, he placed in Andre’s hands a liberal sum for the 
cost of it, giving carte blanche for its creation. 

Among the blacks were also a number of the old house 
servants. Absalom, the former major domo, and a half-dozen 
of the younger men, once waiters and attaches of the kitchen, 
pantry, and other domestic departments crowded around to 
greet “ M’shi Grande ” Absalom guaranteed to marshal, of 
these, a corps of assistants that would perform with credit the 
serving of the dinner. 

After distributing a liberal largesse among the faithful, 
Grandemont rode back to town well pleased. There were 
many other smaller details to think of and provide for, but 
eventually the scheme was complete, and now there remained 
only the issuance of the invitations to his guests. 

Along the river within the scope of a score of miles dwelt 
some half-dozen families with whose princely hospitality that 
of the Charleses had been contemporaneous. They were the 
proudest and most august of the old regime. Their small 
circle had been a brilliant one; their social relations close and 
warm; their houses full of rare welcome and discriminating 
bounty. Those friends, said Grandemont, should once more, 


234 


Road s of Destiny 

if never again* sit at Charleroi on a nineteenth of January to 
celebrate the festal day of his house. 

Grandemont had his cards of invitation engraved. They 
were expensive* but beautiful. In one particular their good 
taste might have been disputed; but the Creole allowed him- 
self that one feather in the cap of his fugacious splendour. 
Might he not be allowed* for the one day of the renaissance , 
to be “Grandemont du Puy Charles* of Charleroi”? He 
sent the invitations out early in January so that the guests 
might not fail to receive due notice. 

At eight o'clock in the morning of the nineteenth* the lower 
coast steamboat River Belle gingerly approached the long 
unused landing at Charleroi. The bridge was lowered* and 
a swarm of the plantation hands streamed along the rotting 
pier* bearing ashore a strange assortment of freight. Great 
shapeless bundles and bales and packets swathed in cloths 
and bound with ropes; tubs and urns of palms* evergreens, 
and tropical flowers; tables* mirrors* chairs* couches* carpets* 
and pictures — all carefully bound and padded against the 
dangers of transit. 

Grandemont was among them* the busiest there. To the 
safe conveyance of certain large hampers eloquent with 
printed cautions to delicate handling he gave his superinten- 
dence* for they contained the fragile china and glassware. 
The dropping of one of those hampers would have cost him 
more than he could have saved in a year. 

The last article unloaded* the River Belle backed off and 
continued her course down stream. In less than an hour 
everything had been conveyed to the house. And came then 
Absalom's task* directing the placing of the furniture and 
wares. There was plenty of help* for that day was always a 
holiday in Charleroi* and the Negroes did not suffer the old 
traditions to lapse. Almost the entire population of the quar- 
ters volunteered their aid. A score of piccaninnies were 


The Renaissance at Charleroi 


235 


sweeping at the leaves in the yard. In the big kitchen at the 
rear Andre was lording it with his old-time magnificence over 
his numerous sub-cooks and scullions. Shutters were flung 
wide; dust spun in clouds; the house echoed to voices and the 
tread of busy feet. The prince had come again, and Char- 
leroi woke from its long sleep. 

The full moon, as she rose across the river that night and 
peeped above the levee, saw a sight that had been long missing 
from her orbit. The old plantation house shed a soft and 
alluring radiance from every window. Of its two-score rooms 
only four had been refurnished — the large reception cham- 
ber, the dining hall, and two smaller rooms for the conven- 
ience of the expected guests. But lighted wax candles were 
set in the windows of every room. 

The dining hall was the chef d’oeuvre. The long table, 
set with twenty-five covers, sparkled like a winter landscape 
witli its snowy napery and china and the icy gleam of crystal. 
The chaste beauty of the room had required small adornment. 
The polished floor burned to a glowing ruby with the reflec- 
tion of candle light. The rich wainscoting reached half way 
to the ceiling. Along and above this had been set the reliev- 
ing lightness of a few water-colour sketches of fruit and 
flower. 

The reception chamber was fitted in a simple but elegant 
style. Its arrangement suggested nothing of the fact that on 
the morrow the room would again be cleared and abandoned 
to the dust and the spider. The entrance hall was imposing 
with palms and ferns and the light of an immense cande- 
labrum. 

At seven o’clock Grandemont, in evening dress, with pearls 
— a family passion — in his spotless linen, emerged from 
somewhere. The invitations had specified eight as the dining 
hour. lie drew an armchair upon the porch, and sat there, 
smoking cigarettes and half dreaming. 


236 


Roads of Destiny 

The moon was an hour high. Fifty yards back from the 
gate stood the house, under its noble grove. The road ran in 
front, and then came the grass-grown levee and the insatiate 
river beyond. Just above the levee top a tiny red light was 
creeping down and a tiny green one was creeping up. Then 
the passing steamers saluted, and the hoarse din startled the 
drowsy silence of the melancholy lowlands. The stillness 
returned, save for the little voices of the night — the owl’s 
recitative, the capriccio of the crickets, the concerto of the 
frogs in the grass. The piccaninnies and the dawdlers from 
the quarters had been dismissed to their confines, and the 
melee of the day was reduced to an orderly and intelligent 
silence. The six coloured waiters, in their white jackets, 
paced, cat-footed, about the table, pretending to arrange 
where all was beyond betterment. Absalom, in black and 
shining pumps, posed, superior, here and there where the 
lights set off his grandeur. And Grandemont rested in his 
chair, waiting for his guests. 

He must have drifted into a dream — and an extravagant 
one — for he was master of Charleroi and Adele was his wife. 
She was coming out to him now; he could hear her steps; he 
could feel her hand upon his shoulder — 

“Pardon moi, M’slii Grande ” — it was Absalom’s hand 
touching him, it was Absalom’s voice, speaking the patois of 
the blacks — “but it is eight o’clock.” 

Eight o’clock. Grandemont sprang up. In the moonlight 
he could see the row of hitching-posts outside the gate. Long 
ago the horses of the guests should have stood there. They 
were vacant. 

A chanted roar of indignation, a just, waxing bellow of 
affront and dishonoured genius came from Andre’s kitchen, 
filling the house with rhythmic protest. The beautiful dinner, 
the pearl of a dinner, the little excellent superb jewel of a 
dinner! But one moment more of waiting and not even the 


The Renaissance at Charleroi 237 

thousand thunders of black pigs of the quarters would touch 
it! 

“They are a little late/’ said Grandemont, calmly. “They 
will come soon. Tell Andre to hold back dinner. And ask 
him if, by some chance, a bull from the pastures has broken, 
roaring, into the house.” 

He seated himself again to liis cigarettes. Though he had 
said it, he scarcely believed Charleroi would entertain company 
that night. For the first time in history the invitation of a 
Charles had been ignored. So simple in courtesy and honour 
was Grandemont and, perhaps, so serenely confident in the 
prestige of his name, that the most likely reasons for his 
vacant board did not occur to him. 

Charleroi stood by a road travelled daily by people from 
those plantations whither his invitations had gene. No doubt 
even on the day before the sudden reanimation of the old house 
they had driven past and observed the evidences of long de- 
sertion and decay. They had looked at the corpse of Charle- 
roi and then at Grandemont’s invitations, and, though the 
puzzle or tasteless hoax or whatever the thing meant left them 
perplexed, they would not seek its solution by the folly of a 
visit to that deserted house. 

The moon was now above the grove, and the yard was pied 
with deep shadows save where they lightened in the tender glow 
of outpouring candle light. A crisp breeze from the river 
hinted at the possibility of frost when the night should have 
become older. The grass at one side of the steps was specked 
with the white stubs of Grandemont’s cigarettes. The cot- 
ton-broker’s clerk sat in his chair with the smoke spiralling 
above him. I doubt that he once thought of the little fortune 
he had so impotently squandered. Perhaps it was compen- 
sation enough for him to sit thus at Charleroi for a few re- 
trieved hours. Idly his mind wandered in and out many 
fanciful paths of memory. He smiled to himself as a para- 


238 


Roads of Destiny 

phrased line of Scripture strayed into liis mind: “A certain 
j poor man made a feast.” 

He heard the sound of Absalom coughing a note of sum- 
mons. Grandemont stirred. This time he had not been 
asleep — only drowsing. 

“Nine o’clock, M’shi Grande ” said Absalom in the unin- 
flected voice of a good servant who states a fact unqualified 
by personal opinion. 

Grandemont rose to his feet. In their time all the 
Charleses had been proven, and they were gallant losers. 

“Serve dinner,” he said calmly. And then he checked 
Absalom's movement to obey, for something clicked the gate 
latch and was coming down the walk toward the house. Some- 
thing that shuffled its feet and muttered to itself as it came. 
It stopped in the current of light at the foot of the steps and 
spake, in the universal whine of the gadding mendicant. 

“Kind sir, could you spare a poor, hungry man, out of 
luck, a little to eat? And to sleep in the corner of a shed? 
For” — the thing concluded, irrelevantly — “I can sleep now. 
There are no mountains to dance reels in the night; and the 
copper kettles are all scoured bright. The iron band is still 
around my ankle, and a link, if it is your desire I should be 
chained.” 

It set a foot upon the step and drew up the rags that hung 
upon the limb. Above the distorted shoe, caked with the dust 
of a hundred leagues, they saw the link and the iron band. 
The clothes of the tramp were wreaked to piebald tatters 
by sun and rain and wear. A mat of brown, tangled hair 
and beard covered his head and face, out of which his eyes 
stared distractedly. Grandemont noticed that he carried in 
one hand a white, square card. 

“What is that?” he asked. 

“I picked it up, sir, at the side of the road.” The vaga- 
bond handed the card to Grandemont. “Just a little to eat, 


The Renaissance at Charleroi 


239 


sir. A little parched corn, a tartilla, or a handful of beans. 
Goat’s meat I cannot eat. When I cut their throats they cry 
like children.” 

Grandemont held up the card. It was one of liis own in- 
vitations to dinner. No doubt some one had cast it away 
from a passing carriage after comparing it with the tenant- 
less house at Charleroi. 

“From the hedges and highways bid them come/’ he said 
to himself, softly smiling. And then to Absalom: “Send 
Louis to me.” 

Louis, once his own body-servant, came promptly, in his 
white jacket. 

“This gentleman/’ said Grandemont, “will dine with me. 
Furnish him with bath and clothes. In twenty minutes have 
him ready and dinner served.” 

Louis approached the disreputable guest with the suavity 
due to a visitor to Charleroi, and spirited him away to inner 
regions. 

Promptly, in twenty minutes, Absalom announced dinner, 
and, a moment later, the guest was ushered into the dining 
hall where Grandemont waited, standing, at the head of the 
table. The attentions of Louis had transformed the stranger 
into something resembling the polite animal. Clean linen 
and an old evening suit that had been sent down from town 
to clothe a waiter had worked a miracle with his exterior. 
Brush and comb had partially subdued the wild disorder of 
his hair. Now he might have passed for no more extrav- 
agant a thing than one of those poseurs in art and music 
who affect such oddity of guise. The man’s countenance and 
demeanour, as he approached the table, exhibited nothing of 
the awkwardness or confusion to be expected from his Arabian 
Nights change. He allowed Absalom to seat him at Grande- 
mont’s right hand with the manner of one thus accustomed 
to be waited upon. 


240 


Roads of Destiny 

“It grieves me,” said Grandemont, “to be obliged to ex- 
change names with a guest. My own name is Charles.” 

“In the mountains,” said the wayfarer, “they call me 
Gringo. Along the roads they call me Jack.” 

“I prefer the latter,” said Grandemont. “A glass of wine 
with you, Mr. Jack.” 

Course after course was served by the supernumerous wait- 
ers. Grandemont, inspired by the results of Andre’s ex- 
quisite skill in cookery and his own in the selection of wines 
became the model host, talkative, witty, and genial. The 
guest was fitful in conversation. His mind seemed to be sus- 
taining a succession of waves of dementia followed by inter- 
vals of comparative lucidity. There was the glassy bright- 
ness of recent fever in his eyes. A long course of it must 
have been the cause of his emaciation and weakness, his dis- 
tracted mind, and the dull pallor that showed even through 
the tan of wind and sun. 

“Charles,” he said to Grandemont — for thus he seemed to 
interpret his name — “you never saw the mountains dance, 
did you?” 

“No, Mr. Jack,” answered Grandemont, gravely, “the spec- 
tacle has been denied me. But, I assure you, I can under- 
stand it must be a diverting sight. The big ones, you know, 
white with snow on the tops, waltzing — decollete , we may 
say.” 

“You first scour the kettles,” said Mr. Jack, leaning to- 
ward him excitedly, “to cook the beans in the morning, and 
you lie down on a blanket and keep quite still. Then they 
come out and dance for you. You would go out and dance 
with them but you are chained every night to the centre pole 
of the hut. You believe the mountains dance, don’t you, 
Charlie?” 

“I contradict no traveller’s tales,” said Grandemont, with 
a smile. 


The Renaissance at Charleroi 241 

Mr. Jack laughed loudly. He dropped his voice to a con- 
fidential whisper. 

“You are a fool to believe it,” he went on. “They don't 
really dance. It's the fever in your head. It’s the hard 
work and the bad water that does it. You are sick for 
weeks and there is no medicine. The fever comes on every 
evening, and then you are as strong as two men. One 
night the compahia are lying drunk with mescal. They have 
brought back sacks of silver dollars from a ride, and they 
drink to celebrate. In the night you file the chain in two 
and go down the mountain. You walk for miles — hundreds 
of them. By and by the mountains are all gone, and you 
come to the prairies. They do not dance at night; they are 
merciful, and you sleep. Then you come to the river, and it 
says things to you. You follow it down, down, but you 
can’t find what you are looking for." 

Mr. Jack leaned back in his chair, and his eyes slowly 
closed. The food and wine had steeped him in a deep calm. 
The tense strain had been smoothed from his face. The 
languor of repletion was claiming him. Drowsily he spoke 
again. 

“It’s bad manners — I know — to go to sleep — at table 
— but — that was — such a good dinner — Grande, old fel- 
low." 

Grande! The owner of the name started and set down his 
glass. How should this wretched tatterdemalion whom he had 
invited. Caliph-like, to sit at his feast know his name ? 

Not at first, but soon, little by little, the suspicion, wild and 
unreasonable as it was, stole into his brain. He drew out his 
watch with hands that almost balked him by their trembling, 
and opened the back case. There was a picture there — a 
photograph fixed to the inner side. 

Rising, Grandemont shook Mr. Jack by the shoulder. The 
weary guest opened his eyes. Grandemont held the watch. 


242 


Hoads of Destiny 

“Look at this picture, Mr. Jack. Have you ever — * 

“My sister A dele!" 

The vagrant's voice rang loud and sudden through the 
room. He started to his feet, but Grandemont’s arms were 
about him, and Grandemont was calling him “Victor! — Vic- 
tor Fauquier! Merci, merci, mon Dieu!” 

Too far overcome by sleep and fatigue was the lost one 
to talk that night. Days afterward, when the tropic calen - 
tura had cooled in his veins, the disordered fragments he had 
spoken were completed in shape and sequence. He told the 
story of his angry flight, of toils and calamities on sea and 
shore, of his ebbing and flowing fortune in southern lands, 
and of his latest peril when, held a captive, he served menially 
in a stronghold of bandits in the Sonora Mountains of Mex- 
ico. And of the fever that seized him there and his escape 
and delirium, during which he strayed, perhaps led by some 
marvellous instinct, back to the river on whose bank he had 
been born. And of the proud and stubborn thing in his 
blood that had kept him silent through all those years, cloud- 
ing the honour of one, though he knew it not, and keeping 
apart two loving hearts. “What a thing is love!" you may 
say. And if I grant it, you shall say, with me: “What a 
thing is pride !" 

On a couch in the reception chamber Victor lay, with a dawn- 
ing understanding in his heavy eyes and peace in his softened 
countenance. Absalom was preparing a lounge for the tran- 
sient master of Charleroi, who, to-morrow, would be again 
the clerk of a cotton broker, but also — 

“To-morrow," Grandemont was saying, as he stood by the 
couch of his guest, speaking the words with his face shining 
as must have shone the face of Elijah’s charioteer when he 
announced the glories of that heavenly journey — “To-mor* 
row I will take you to Her." 


XVIII 


ON BEHALF OF THE MANAGEMENT 

THIS is the story of the man manager, and how he held his 
own until the very last paragraph. 

I had it from Sully Magoon, viva voce . The words are in- 
deed his; and if they do not constitute truthful fiction my 
memory should be taxed with the blame. 

It is not deemed amiss to point out, in the beginning, the 
stress that is laid upon the masculinity of the manager. For, 
according to Sully, the term when applied to the feminine 
division of mankind has precisely an opposite meaning. Tlhe 
woman manager (he says) economizes, saves, oppresses her 
household with bargains and contrivances, and looks sourly 
upon any pence that are cast to the fiddler for even a single 
jig-step on life's arid march. Wherefore her men-folk call 
her blessed, and praise her; and then sneak out the backdoor 
to see the Gilhooly Sisters do a buck-and-wing dance. 

Now, the man manager (I still quote Sully) is a Caesar 
without a Brutus. He is an autocrat without responsibility, 
a player who imperils no stake of his own. His office is to 
enact, to reverberate, to boom, to expand, to out-coruscate — 
profitably, if he can. Bill-paying and growing gray hairs 
over results belong to his principals. It is his to guide the 
risk, to be the Apotheosis of Front, the three-tailed Bashaw 
of Bluff, the Essential Oil of Razzle-Dazzle. 

We sat at luncheon, and Sully Magoon told me. I asked 
for particulars. 

“My old friend Denver Galloway was a born manager,” 

243 


244 


Roads of Destiny 

said Sully. “He first saw the light of day in New York at 
three years of age. He was born in Pittsburg, but his par- 
ents moved East the third summer afterward. 

“When Denver grew up, he went into the managing busi- 
ness. At the age of eight he managed a news-stand for the 
Dago that owned it. After that he was manager at differ- 
ent times of a skating-rink, a livery-stable, a policy game, 
a restaurant, a dancing academy, a walking match, a burlesque 
company, a dry-goods store, a dozen hotels and summer re- 
sorts, an insurance company, and a district leader’s campaign. 
That campaign, when Coughlin was elected on the East Side, 
gave Denver a boost. It got him a job as manager of a 
Broadway hotel, and for a while he managed Senator 
O’Grady ’s campaign in the nineteenth. 

“Denver was a New Yorker all over. I think he was out 
of the city just twice before the time I’m going to tell you 
about. Once he went rabbit-shooting in Yonkers. The other 
time I met him just landing from a North River ferry. 
‘Been out West on a big trip, Sully, old boy/ says he. 
‘Gad! Sully, I had no idea we had such a big country. It’s 
immense. Never conceived of the magnificence of the West 
before. It’s gorgeous and glorious and infinite. Makes the 
East seem cramped and little. It’s a grand thing to travel 
and get an idea of the extent and resources of our country/ 

“I’d made several little runs out to California and down 
to Mexico and up through Alaska, so I sits down with Den- 
ver for a chat about the things he saw. 

“ ‘Took in the Yosemite, out there, of course?’ I asks. 

“ ‘Well — no/ says Denver, ‘I don’t think so. At least, 
I don’t recollect it. You see, I only had three days, and I 
didn’t get any farther west than Youngstown, Ohio.’ 

“About two years ago I dropped into New York with a 
little fly-paper proposition about a Tennessee mica mine that 
I wanted to spread out in a nice, sunny window, in the hopes 


On Behalf of the Management 245 

of catching a few. I was coming out of a printing-shop one 
afternoon with a batch of fine, sticky prospectuses when I 
ran against Denver coming around a corner. I never saw 
jiim looking so much like a tiger-lily. He was as beautiful 
and new as a trellis of sweet peas, and as rollicking as a 
clarinet solo. We shook hands, and he asked me what I was 
doing, and I gave him the outlines of the scandal I was try- 
ing to create in mica. 

“ ‘Pooh, pooh ! for your mica/ says Denver. ‘Don’t you 
know better. Sully, then to bump up against the coffers of 
little old New York with anything as transparent as mica? 
Now, you come with me over to the Hotel Brunswick. You’re 
just the man I was hoping for. I’ve got something there in 
sepia and curled hair that I want you to look at.’ 

“ ‘You putting up at the Brunswick?’ I asks. 

“ ‘Not a cent,* says Denver, cheerful. ‘The syndicate that 
owns the hotel puts up. I’m manager.’ 

“The Brunswick wasn’t one of them Broadway pot-houses 
all full of palms and hyphens and flowers and costumes — 
kind of a mixture of lawns and laundries. It was on one 
of the East Side avenues; but it was a solid, old-time cara- 
vansary such as the Mayor of Skaneateles or the Governor 
of Missouri might stop at. Eight stories high it stalked up, 
with new striped awnings, and the electrics had it as light as 
day. 

“ ‘I’ve been manager here for a year/ says Denver, as 
we drew nigh. ‘When I took charge/ says he, ‘nobody nor 
nothing ever stopped at the Brunswick. The clock over the 
clerks’ desk used to run for weeks without winding. A man 
fell dead with heart-disease on the sidewalk in front of it 
one day, and when they went to pick him up he was two 
blocks away. I figured out a scheme to catch the West In- 
dies and South American trade. I persuaded the owners to 
invest a few more thousands^ and I put every cent of it in 


246 


Roads of Destiny 

electric lights, cayenne pepper, gold-leaf, and garlic. I got 
a Spanish-speaking force of employees and a string band; 
and there was talk going around of a cockfight in the base- 
ment every Sunday. Maybe I didn’t catch the nut-brown 
gang! From Havana to Patagonia the Don Senors knew 
about the Brunswick. We get the highfliers from Cuba and 
Mexico and the couple of Americas farther south; and they’ve 
simply got the boodle to bombard every bullfinch in the bush 
with/ 

“When we get to the hotel, Denver stops me at the door. 

“ ‘There’s a little liver-coloured man/ says he, ‘sitting in 
a big leather chair to your right, inside. You sit down and 
watch him for a few minutes, and then tell me what you 
think.’ 

“I took a chair, while Denver circulates around in the big 
rotunda. The room was about full of curly-headed Cubans 
and South American brunettes of different shades; and the 
atmosphere was international with cigarette smoke, lit up by 
diamond rings and edged off with a whisper of garlic. 

“That Denver Galloway was sure a relief to the eye. Six 
feet two he was, red-headed, and pink-gilled as a sun-perch. 
And the air he had! Court of Saint James, Chauncey OF 
cott, Kentucky colonels, Count of Monte Cristo, grand opera 
— all these things he reminded you of when he was doing 
the honours. When he raised his finger the hotel porters and 
bell-boys skated across the floor like cockroaches, and even 
the clerk behind the desk looked as meek and unimportant 
as Andy Carnegie. 

“Denver passed around, shaking hands with his guests, 
and saying over the two or three Spanish words he knew until 
it was like a coronation rehearsal or a Bryan barbecue in 
Texas. 

“I watched the little man he told me to. ’Twas a little 
foreign person in a double-breasted frock-coat, trying to 


On Behalf of the Management 247 

touch the floor with his toes. He was the colour of vici kid, 
and his whiskers was like excelsior made out of mahogany 
wood. He breathed hard, and he never once took his eyes 
off of Denver. There was a look of admiration and respect 
on his face like you see on a boy that’s following a cham- 
pion base-ball team, or the Kaiser William looking at himself 
in a glass. 

“After Denver goes his rounds he takes me into his private 
office. 

“ ‘What’s your report on the dingy I told you to watch?' 
he asks. 

“ ‘Well/ says I, ‘if you was as big a man as he takes you 
to be, nine rooms and bath in the Hall of Fame, rent free 
till October 1st, would be about your size.’ 

“ ‘You’ve caught the idea/ says Denver. ‘I’ve given him 
the wizard grip and the cabalistic eye. The glamour that 
emanates from yours truly has enveloped him like a North 
River fog. He seems to think that Senor Galloway is the 
man who. I guess they don’t raise 74-inch sorrel-tops with 
romping ways down in his precinct. Now, Sully/ goes on 
Denver, ‘if you was asked, what would you take the little 
man to be?’ 

“ ‘Why/ says I, The barber around the corner; or, if he’s 
royal, the king of the boot-blacks.’ 

“ ‘Never judge by looks/ says Denver; ‘he’s the dark-horse 
candidate for president of a South American republic/ 

“ ‘Well/ says I, ‘he didn’t look quite that bad to me/ 

“Then Denver draws his chair up close and gives out his 
scheme. 

“ ‘Sully/ says he, with seriousness and levity, T’ve been 
a manager of one thing and another for over twenty years. 
That’s what I was cut out for — to have somebody else to 
put up the money and look after the repairs and the police 
and taxes while I run the business. I never had a dollar 


248 


Roads of Destiny 

my own invested in my life. I wouldn’t know liow it felt 
to have the dealer rake in a coin of mine. But I can handle 
other people’s stuff’ and manage other people’s enterprises. 
I’ve had an ambition to get hold of something big — something 
higher than hotels and lumber-yards and local politics. I 
want to be manager of something way up — like a railroad 
or a diamond trust or an automobile factory. Now here 
comes this little man from the tropics with just what I want, 
and lie’s offered me the job.’ 

" ‘What job?’ I asks. 'Is he going to revive the Georgia 
Minstrels or open a cigar store?’ 

" 'He’s no ’coon,’ says Denver, severe. 'He’s General 
Itompiro — General Josey Alfonso Sapolio Jew-Ann Rom- 
piro — he has his cards printed by a news-ticker. He’s the 
real thing, Sully, and he wants me to manage his campaign — 
he wants Denver C. Galloway for a president-maker. Think 
of that. Sully ! Old Denver romping down to the tropics, 
plucking lotos-flowers and pineapples with one hand and 
making presidents with the other ! Won’t it make Uncle Mark 
Hanna mad? And I want you to go too, Sully. You can 
help me more than any man I know. I’ve been herding that 
brown man for a month in the hotel so he wouldn’t stray 
down around Fourteenth Street and get roped in by that 
crowd of refugee tamale-eaters down there. And he’s landed, 
and D. C. G. is manager of General J. A. S. J. Rompiro’s 
presidential campaign in the great republic of — what’s its 
name ?’ 

"Denver gets down an atlas from a shelf, and we have a 
look at the afflicted country. ’Twas a dark blue one, on the 
west coast, about the size of a special delivery stamp. 

" 'From what the General tells me,’ says Denver, 'and 
from what I can gather from the encyclopaedia and by con- 
versing with the janitor of the Astor Library, it’ll be as easy 
to handle the vote of that country as it would be for Tam- 


On Behalf of the Management 249 

many to get a man named Geoghan appointed on the White 
Wings force/ 

“ ‘Why don’t General Rumptyro stay at home/ says I, 
‘and manage his own canvass?’ 

“ ‘You don’t understand South American politics/ says 
Denver, getting out the cigars. ‘It’s this way. General 
Rompiro had the misfortune of becoming a popular idol. He 
distinguished himself by leading the army in pursuit of a 
couple of sailors who had stolen the plaza — or the carramba, 
or something belonging to the government. The people called 
him a hero and the government got jealous. The president 
sends for the chief of the Department of Public Edifices. 
“Find me a nice, clean adobe wall,” says he, “and stand 
Senor Rompiro up against it. Then call out a file of soldiers 
and — then let him be up against it.” Something/ goes on 
Denver, ‘like the way they’ve treated Hobson and Carrie 
Nation in our country. So the General had to flee. But he 
was thoughtful enough to bring along his roll. He’s got 
sinews of war enough to buy a battleship and float her off 
in the christening fluid/ 

“ ‘What chance has he got to be president?’ 

“ ‘Wasn’t I just giving you his rating?’ says Denver. 
‘His country is one of the few in South America where the 
presidents are elected by popular ballot. The General can’t 
go there just now. It hurts to be shot against a wall. He 
needs a campaign manager to go down and whoop things up 
for him — to get the boys in line and the new two-dollar 
bills afloat and the babies kissed and the machine in running 
order. Sully, I don’t want to brag, but you remember how 
I brought Coughlin under the wire for leader of the nine- 
teenth? Ours was the banner district. Don’t you suppose 
I know how to manage a little monkey-cage of a country like 
that? Why, with the dough the General’s willing to turn 
loose I could put two more coats of Japan varnish on him 


250 


Roads of Destiny 

and have him elected Governor of Georgia. New York has 
got the finest lot of campaign managers in the world, Sully, 
and you give me a feeling of hauteur when you cast doubts on 
my ability to handle the political situation in a country so 
small that they have to print the names of the towns in the 
appendix and footnotes/ 

“I argued with Denver some. I told him that politics down 
in that tropical atmosphere was bound to be different from 
the nineteenth district; but I might just as well have been 
a Congressman from North Dakota trying to get an appro- 
priation for a lighthouse and a coast survey. Denver Gallo- 
way had ambitions in the manager line, and what I said 
didn’t amount to as much as a fig-leaf at the National Dress- 
makers’ Convention. ‘I’ll give you three days to cogitate 
about going/ says Denver; ‘and I’ll introduce you to General 
Rompiro to-morrow, so you can get his ideas drawn right 
from the rose wood.’ 

“I put on my best reception-to-Booker-Washington manner 
the next day and tapped the distinguished rubber-plant for 
what he knew. 

“General Rompiro wasn’t so gloomy inside as he appeared 
on the surface. He was polite enough; and he exuded a 
number of sounds that made a fair stagger at arranging them- 
selves into language. It was English he aimed at, and when 
his system of syntax reached your mind it wasn’t past you 
to understand it. If you took a college professor’s maga- 
zine essay and a Chinese laundryman’s explanation of a lost 
shirt and jumbled ’em together, you’d have about what the 
General handed you out for conversation. He told me all 
about his bleeding country, and what they were trying to do 
for it before the doctor came. But he mostly talked of Den- 
ver C. Galloway. 

“ ‘Ah, sefior/ says he, ‘that is the most fine of mans. 
Never I have seen one man so magnifico, so gr-r-rand, sc 


On Behalf of the Management 251 

conformable to make done things so swiftly by other mans. 
He shall make other mans do the acts and himself to order 
and regulate, until we arrive at seeing accomplishments of a 
suddenly. Oh, yes, sehor. In my countree there is not such 
mans of so beegness, so good talk, so compliments, so strong- 
ness of sense and such. Ah, that Senor Galloway!’ 

“ ‘Yes/ says I, ‘old Denver is the boy you want. He’s 
managed every kind of business here except filibustering, and 
he might as well complete the list.’ 

“Before the three days was up I decided to join Denver 
in his campaign. Denver got three months* vacation from 
his hotel owners. For a week we lived in a room with the 
General, and got all the pointers about his country that we 
could interpret from the noises he made. When we got ready 
to start, Denver had a pocket full of memorandums, and 
letters from the General to his friends, and a list of names 
and addresses of loyal politicians who would help along the 
boom of the exiled popular idol. Besides these liabilities we 
carried assets to the amount of $20,000 in assorted United 
States currency. General Rompiro looked like a burnt ef- 
figy, but he was Br’er Fox himself when it came to the real 
science of politics. 

“ ‘Here is moneys,’ says the General, ‘of a small amount. 
There is more with me — moocho more. Plentee moneys shall 
you be supplied, Senor Galloway. More I shall send you at 
all times that you need. I shall desire to pay feefty — one 
hundred thousand pesos, if necessario, to be elect. How no? 
Sacramento! If that I am president and do not make one 
meelion dolla in the one year you shall keek me on that side! 
— valgame Dios ! 9 

“Denver got a Cuban cigar-maker to fix up a little cipher 
code with English and Spanish words, and gave the General 
a copy, so we could cable him bulletins about the election, or 
for more money, and then we were ready to start. General 


252 


Roads of Destiny 

Rompiro escorted us to the steamer. On the pier he hugged 
Denver around the waist and sobbed. ‘Noble mans/ says 
he, ‘General Rompiro propels into you his confidence and 
trust. Go, in the hands of the saints to do the work for your 
friend. Viva la lihertad! 9 

" 'Sure/ says Denver. 'And viva la liberality an’ la soap- 
erino and lioch der land of the lotus and the vote us. Don’t 
worry, General. We’ll have you elected as sure as bananas 
grow upside down/ 

" 'Make pictures on me/ pleads the General — 'make pic- 
tures on me for money as it is needful/ 

"'Does he want to be tattooed, would you think?’ asks 
Denver, wrinkling up his eyes. 

" ‘Stupid !’ says I. 'He wants you to draw on him for 
election expenses. It’ll be worse than tattooing. More like 
an autopsy/ 

"Me and Denver steamed down to Panama, and then hiked 
across the Isthmus, and then by steamer again down to the 
town of Espiritu on the coast of the General’s country. 

"That was a town to send J. Howard Payne to the growler. 
I’ll tell you how you could make one like it. Take a lot of 
Filipino huts and a couple of hundred brick-kilns and arrange 
’em in squares in a cemetery. Cart down all the conserva- 
tory plants in the Astor and Vanderbilt greenhouses, and stick 
’em about wherever there’s room. Turn all the Bellevue pa- 
tients and the barbers’ convention and the Tuskegee school 
loose in the streets, and run the thermometer up to 120 in 
the shade. Set a fringe of the Rocky Mountains around the 
rear, let it rain, and set the whole business on Rockaway 
Beach in’ the middle of January — and you’d have a good 
imitation of Espiritu. 

"It took me and Denver about a week to get acclimated. 
Denver sent out the letters the General had given him, and 
notified the rest of the gang that there was something doing 


On Behalf of the Management 253 

at the captain’s office. We set up headquarters in an old 
’dobe house on a side street where the grass was waist high. 
The election was only four weeks off ; but there wasn’t any 
excitement. The home candidate for president was named 
Roadrickeys. This town of Espiritu wasn’t the capital any 
more than Cleveland, Ohio, is the capital of the United States, 
but it was the political centre where they cooked up revolu- 
tions, and made up the slates. 

“At the end of the week Denver says the machine is 
started running. 

“ ‘Sully/ says he, ‘we’ve got a walkover. Just because 
General Rompiro ain’t Don Juan-on-the-spot the other crowd 
ain’t at work. They’re as full of apathy as a territorial dele- 
gate during the chaplain’s prayer. Now, we want to in- 
troduce a little hot stuff in the way of campaigning, and we’ll 
surprise ’em at the polls.’ 

“ ‘How are you going to go about it?’ I asks. 

“ ‘Why, the usual way," says Denver, surprised. ‘We’ll 
get the orators on our side out every night to make speeches 
in the native lingo, and have torch-light parades under the 
shade of the palms, and free drinks, and buy up all the brass 
bands, of course, and — well. I’ll turn the baby-kissing over 
to you, Sully — I’ve seen a lot of ’em.’ 

“ ‘What else?’ says I. 

“ ‘Why, you know,’ says Denver. ‘We get the heelers out 
with the crackly two-spots, and coal-tickets, and orders for 
groceries, and have a couple of picnics out under the banyan- 
trees, and dances in the Firemen’s Hall — and the usual 
things. But first of all. Sully, I’m going to have the big- 
gest clam-bake down on the beach that was ever seen south 
of the tropic of Capricorn. I figured that out from the start. 
We’ll stuff the whole town and the jungle folk for miles 
around with clams. That’s the first thing on the programme. 
Suppose you go out now, and make the arrangements for that. 


254 


Roads of Destiny 

I want to look over the estimates the General made of the 
vote in the coast districts.’ 

“I had learned some Spanish in Mexico, so I goes out, as 
Denver says, and in fifteen minutes I come back to head- 
quarters. 

“ ‘If there ever was a clam in this country nobody ever 
saw it,’ I says. 

“ ‘Great sky-rockets !’ says Denver, with his mouth and 
eyes open. ‘No clams? How in the — who ever saw a 
country without clams ? What kind of a — how’s an election 
to be pulled off without a clam-bake, I’d like to know? Are 
you sure there’s no clams. Sully?’ 

§ “ ‘Not even a can,’ says I. 

“ ‘Then for God’s sake go out and try to find out what the 
people here do eat. We’ve got to fill ’em up with grub of 
some kind.’ 

“I went out again. Sully was manager. In half an hour 
I gets back. 

“ ‘They eat,’ says I, ‘tortillas, cassava, carne de chivo, ar- 
toz con pello, aquacates, zapates, yucca, and liuevos fritos.’ 

“ ‘A man that would eat them things,’ says Denver, get- 
ting a little mad, ‘ought to have his vote challenged.’ 

“In a few more days the campaign managers from the 
other towns came sliding into Espiritu. Our headquarters was 
a busy place. We had an interpreter, and ice-water, and 
drinks, and cigars, and Denver flashed the General’s roll so 
often that it got so small you couldn’t have bought a Repub- 
lican vote in Ohio with it. 

“And then Denver cabled to General Rompiro for ten 
thousand dollars more and got it. 

“There were a number of Americans in Espiritu, but they 
were all in business or grafts of some kind, and wouldn’t take 
any hand in politics, which was sensible enough. But they 
showed me and Denver a fine time, and fixed us up so we 


On Behalf of the Management 255 

could get decent things to eat and drink. There was one 
American, named Hicks, used to come and loaf at the head- 
quarters. Hicks had had fourteen years of Espiritu. He 
was six feet four and weighed in at 135. Cocoa was his 
line; and coast fever and the climate had taken all the life 
out of him. They said he hadn’t smiled in eight years. His 
face was three feet long, and it never moved except when he 
opened it to take quinine. He used to sit in our headquar- 
ters and kill fleas and talk sarcastic. 

“ T don’t take much interest in politics/ says Hicks, one 
day, Tut I’d like you to tell me what you’re trying to do 
down here, Galloway ?’ 

“ ‘We’re boosting General Rompiro, of course/ says Den- 
ver. ‘We’re going to put him in the presidential chair. I’m 
his manager.’ 

“ ‘Well,’ says Hicks, ‘if I was you I’d be a little slower 
about it. You’ve got a long time ahead of you, you know.’ 

“ ‘Not any longer than I need/ says Denver. 

“Denver went ahead and worked things smooth. He dealt 
out money on the quiet to his lieutenants, and they were always 
coming after it. There was free drinks for everybody in 
town, and bands playing every night, and fireworks, and 
there was a lot of heelers going around buying up votes day 
and night for the new style of politics in Espiritu, and every- 
body liked it. 

“The day set for the election was November 4th. On 
the night before Denver and me were smoking our pipes in 
headquarters, and in comes Hicks and unjoints himself, and 
sits in a chair, mournful. Denver is cheerful and confident. 
‘Rompiro will win in a romp/ says he. ‘We’ll carry the 
country by 10,000. It’s all over but the vivas. To-morrow 
will tell the tale.’ 

“ ‘What’s going to happen to-morrow?’ asks Hicks. 

“ ‘Why, the presidential election, of course/ says Denver. 


256 


Roads of Destiny 

“ 'Say/ says Hicks, looking kind of funny, ‘didn't any- 
body tell you fellows that the election was held a week be- 
fore you came? Congress changed the date to July 27th. 
Roadrickeys was elected by 17,000. I thought you was boom- 
ing old Rompiro for next term, two years from now. Won- 
dered if you was going to keep up such a hot lick that long.' 

“I dropped my pipe on the floor. Denver bit the stem off 
of his. Neither of us said anything. 

“And then I heard a sound like somebody ripping a clap- 
board off of a barn-roof. ’Twas Hicks laughing for the 
first time in eight years." 

Sully Magoon paused while the waiter poured us black cof- 
fee. 

“Your friend was, indeed, something of a manager," I 
said. 

“Wait a minute," said Sully, “I haven’t given you any 
idea of what he could do yet. That’s all to come. 

“When we got back to New York there was General Rom- 
piro waiting for us on the pier. He was dancing like a 
cinnamon bear, all impatient for the news, for Denver had 
just cabled him when we would arrive and nothing more. 

“ ‘Am I elect?’ he shouts. ‘Am I elect, friend of mine? 
Is it that mine country have demand General Rompiro for 
the president? The last dollar of mine have I sent you that 
last time. It is necessario that I am elect. I have not more 
money. Am I elect, Senor Galloway ?' 

“Denver turns to me. 

“ ‘Leave me with old Rompey, Sully/ he says. ‘I’ve got 
to break it to him gently. ’T would be indecent for other 
eyes to witness the operation. This is the time, Sully/ says 
he, ‘when old Denver has got to make good as a jollier and a 
silver-tongued sorcerer, or else give up all the medals he’s 
earned.’ 

“A couple of days later I went around to the hotel. There 


On Behalf of the Management 257 

was Denver in his old place, looking like the hero of two 
historical novels, and telling ’em what a fine time he’d had 
down on his orange plantation in Florida. 

“ ‘Did you fix things up with the General?’ I asks him. 

“ ‘Did I ?’ says Denver. ‘Come and see/ 

“He takes me by the arm and walks me to the dining-room 
door. There was a little chocolate-brown fat man in a dress 
suit, with his face shining with' joy as he swelled himself and 
skipped about the floor. Danged if Denver hadn’t made 
General Rompiro head waiter of the Hotel Brunswick !” 

“Is Mr. Galloway still in the managing business?” I 
asked, as Mr. Magoon ceased. 

Sully shook his head. 

“Denver married an auburn-haired widow that owns a big 
hotel in Harlem. He just helps around the place.” 


XIX 


WHISTLING DICK’S CHRISTMAS STOCKING 

It was with much caution that Whistling Dick slid back the 
door of the box-car, for Article 5716, City Ordinances, au- 
thorized (perhaps unconstitutionally) arrest on suspicion, and 
he was familiar of old with this ordinance. So, before climb- 
ing out, he surveyed the field with all the care of a good 
general. 

He saw no change since his last visit to this big, alms- 
giving, long-suffering city of the South, the cold weather para- 
dise of the tramps. The levee where his freight-car stood was 
pimpled with dark bulks of merchandise. The breeze reeked 
with the well-remembered, sickening smell of the old tar* 
paulins that covered bales and barrels. The dun river slipped 
along among the shipping with an oily gurgle. Far down 
toward Chalmette he could see the great bend in the stream, 
outlined by the row of electric lights. Across the river Algiers 
lay, a long, irregular blot, made darker by the dawn which 
lightened the sky beyond. An industrious tug or two, com- 
ing for some early sailing ship, gave a few appalling toots, 
that seemed to be the signal for breaking day. The Italian 
luggers were creeping nearer their landing, laden with early 
vegetables and shellfish. A vague roar, subterranean in qual- 
ity, from dray wheels and street cars, began to make itself 
heard and felt; and the ferryboats, the Mary Anns of water 
craft, stirred sullenly to their menial morning tasks. 

Whistling Dick’s red head popped suddenly baek into the 
car. A sight too imposing and magnificent for his gaze had 

258 


Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking 259 

been added to the scene. A vast, incomparable policeman 
rounded a pile of rice sacks and stood within twenty yards 
of the car. The daily miracle of the dawn, now being per- 
formed above Algiers, received the flattering attention of this 
specimen of municipal official splendour. He gazed with un- 
biased dignity at the faintly glowing colours until, at last, 
he turned to them his broad back, as if convinced that legal 
interference was not needed, and the sunrise might proceed 
unchecked. So he turned his face to the rice bags, and, draw- 
ing a flat flask from an inside pocket, he placed it to his 
lips and regarded the firmament. 

Whistling Dick, professional tramp, possessed a lialf- 
friendly acquaintance with this officer. They had met several 
times before on the levee at night, for the officer, himself a 
lover of music, had been attracted by the exquisite whistling 
of the shiftless vagabond. Still, he did not care, under the 
present circumstances, to renew the acquaintance. There is 
a difference between meeting a policeman upon a lonely wharf 
and whistling a few operatic airs with him, and being caught 
by him crawling out of a freight-car. So Dick waited, as 
even a New Orleans policeman must move on some time — 
perhaps it is a retributive law of nature — and before long 
‘‘Big Fritz” majestically disappeared between the trains of 
cars. 

Whistling Dick waited as long as his judgment advised, 
and then slid swiftly to the ground. Assuming as far as 
possible the air of an honest labourer who seeks his daily 
toil, he moved across the network of railway lines, with the 
intention of making his way by quiet Girod Street to a certain 
bench in Lafayette Square, where, according to appointment, 
he hoped to rejoin a pal known as “Slick,” this adventurous 
pilgrim having preceded him by one day in a cattle-car into 
which a loose slat had enticed him. 

As Whistling Dick picked his way where night still lingered 


260 


Roads of Destiny 

among the big, reeking, musty warehouses, he gave way to 
the habit that had won for him his title. Subdued, yet clear, 
with each note as true and liquid as a bobolink’s, his whistle 
tinkled about the dim, cold mountains of brick like drops of 
rain falling into a hidden pooh He followed an air, but it 
swam mistily into a swirling current of improvisation. You 
could cull out the trill of mountain brooks, the staccato of 
green rushes shivering above chilly lagoons, the pipe of sleepy 
birds. 

Rounding a corner, the whistler collided with a mountain 
of blue and brass. 

“So,” observed the mountain calmly, “you are already 
pack. Und dere vill not pe frost before two veeks yet! 
Und you haf forgotten how to vistle. Dere was a valse note 
in dot last bar.” 

“Watcher know about it?” said Whistling Dick, with ten- 
tative familiarity; “you wit yer little Gherman-band nix- 
cumrous chunes. Watcher know about music? Pick yer ears, 
and listen agin. Here’s de way I whistled it — see?” 

He puckered his lips, but the big policeman held up his 
hand. 

“Shtop,” he said, “und learn der right way. Und learn 
also dot a rolling shtone can’t vistle for a cent.” 

Big Fritz’s heavy moustache rounded into a circle, and 
from its depths came a sound deep and mellow as that from 
a flute. Fie repeated a few bars of the air the tramp had 
been whistling. The rendition was cold, but correct, and he 
emphasized the note he had taken exception to. 

“Dot p is p natural, und not p vlat. Py der vay, you 
petter pe glad I meet you. Von hour later, und I vould half 
to put you in a gage to vistle mit der chail pirds. Der or- 
ders are to bull all der pums after sunrise.” 

“To which?” 


Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking 261 

“To bull der pums — eferybody mitout fisible means. 
Dirty days ?s der price, or fifteen tollars.” 

“Is dat straight, or a game you givin’ me?” 

“It's der pest tip you efer had. I gif it to you pecause I 
pelief you are not so bad as der rest. Und pecause you gan 
visl 'Der Freischiitz’ bezzer dan I myself gan. Don’t run 
against any more bolicemans aroundt der corners, but go 
away from town a few tays. Goot-pye.” 

So Madame Orleans had at last grown weary of the strange 
and ruffled brood that came yearly to nestle beneath her charit- 
able pinions. 

After the big policeman had departed, Whistling Dick 
stood for an irresolute minute, feeling all the outraged in- 
dignation of a delinquent tenant who is ordered to vacate his 
premises. He had pictured to himself a day of dreamful 
ease when he should have joined his pal; a day of lounging 
on the wharf, munching the bananas and cocoanuts scattered 
in unloading the fruit steamers; and then a feast along the 
free-lunch counters from which the easy-going owners were 
too good-natured or too generous to drive him away, and 
afterward a pipe in one of the little flowery parks and a 
snooze in some shady corner of the wharf. But here was a 
stern order to exile, and one that he knew must be obeyed. 
So, with a wary eye open for the gleam of brass buttons, 
he began his retreat toward a rural refuge. A few days in 
the country need not necessarily prove disastrous. Beyond 
the possibility of a slight nip of frost, there was no formidable 
evil to be looked for. 

However, it was with a depressed spirit that Whistling 
Dick passed the old French market on his chosen route down 
the river. For safety’s sake he still presented to the world 
his portrayal of the part of the worthy artisan on his way 
to labour. A stall-keeper in the market, undeceived, hailed 


262 


Roads of Destiny 

him by the generic name of his ilk, and “Jack’’ halted, taken 
by surprise. The vendor, melted by this proof of his own 
acuteness, bestowed a foot of Frankfurter and half a loaf, 
and thus the problem of breakfast was solved. 

When the streets, from topographical reasons, began to 
shun the river bank the exile mounted to the top of the levee, 
and on its well-trodden path pursued his way. The suburban 
eye regarded him with cold suspicion, individuals reflected 
the stern spirit of the city's heartless edict. He missed the 
seclusion of the crowded town and the safety he could al- 
ways find in the multitude. 

At Chalmette, six miles upon his desultory way. there sud- 
denly menaced him a vast and bewildering industry. A new 
port was being established ; the dock was being built, com- 
presses were going up; picks and shovels and barrows struck 
sX him like serpents from every side. An arrogant foreman 
bore down upon him, estimating his muscles with the eye of 
a recruiting-sergeant. Brown men and black men all about 
him were toiling away. He fled in terror. 

By noon he had reached the country of the plantations, 
the great, sad, silent levels bordering the mighty river. He 
overlooked fields of sugar-cane so vast that their farthest 
limits melted into the sky. The sugar-making season was 
well advanced, and the cutters were at work; the waggons 
creaked drearily after them; the Negro teamsters inspired the 
mules to greater speed with mellow and sonorous imprecations. 
Dark-green groves, blurred by the blue of distance, showed 
where the plantation-houses stood. The tall chimneys of the 
sugar-mills caught the eye miles distant, like lighthouses at 
sea. 

At a certain point Whistling Dick's unerring nose caught 
the scent of frying fish. Like a pointer to a quail, he made 
his way down the levee side straight to the camp of a credu- 
lous and ancient fisherman, whom he charmed with song and 


Whistling Dick's Christmas Stocking 263 

story, so that he dined like an admiral, and then like a phi- 
losopher annihilated the worst three hours of the day by a 
nap under the trees. 

When lie awoke and again continued his hegira, a frosty 
sparkle in the air had succeeded the drowsy warmth of the 
day, and as this portent of a chilly night translated itself 
to the brain of Sir Peregrine, he lengthened his stride and 
bethought him of shelter. He travelled a road that faith- 
fully followed the convolutions of the levee, running along 
its base, but whither he knew not. Bushes and rank grass 
crowded it to the wheel ruts, and out of this ambuscade the 
pests of the lowlands swarmed after him, humming a keen, 
vicious soprano. And as the night grew nearer, although 
colder, the whine of the mosquitoes became a greedy, petu- 
lant snarl that shut out all other sounds. To his right, against 
the heavens, he saw a green light moving, and, accompanying 
it, the masts and funnels of a big incoming steamer, moving 
as upon a screen at a magic-lantern show. And there were 
mysterious marshes at his left, out of which came queer gur- 
gling cries and a choked croaking. The whistling vagrant 
struck up a merry warble to offset these melancholy influences, 
and it is likely that never before, since Pan himself jigged 
it on his reeds, had such sounds been heard in those depressing 
solitudes. 

A distant clatter in the rear quickly developed into the 
swift beat of horses' hoofs, and Whistling Dick stepped 
aside into the dew-wet grass to clear the track. Turning 
his head, he saw approaching a fine team of stylish grays 
drawing a double surrey. A stout man with a white mous- 
tache occupied the front seat, giving all his attention to the 
rigid lines in his hands. Behind him sat a placid, middle- 
aged lady and a brilliant-looking girl hardly arrived at young 
ladyhood. The lap-robe had slipped partly from the knees 
of the gentleman driving, and Whistling Dick saw two stout 


264 


Roads of Destiny 

canvas bags between his feet — bags such as, while loafing 
in cities, he had seen warily transferred between express wag- 
gons and bank doors. The remaining space in the vehicle 
was filled with parcels of various sizes and shapes. 

As the surrey swept even with the sidetracked tramp, the 
bright-eyed girl, seized by some merry, madcap impulse, 
leaned out toward him with a sweet, dazzling smile, and 
cried, “Mer-ry Christ-mas !” in a shrill, plaintive treble. 

Such a thing had not often happened to Whistling Dick, 
and he felt handicapped in devising the correct response. 
But lacking time for reflection, he let his instinct decide, 
and snatching off his battered derby, he rapidly extended it 
at arm’s length, and drew it back with a continuous motion, 
and shouted a loud, but ceremonious, ^Ah, there !” after the 
flying surrey. 

The sudden movement of the girl had caused one of the 
parcels to become unwrapped, and something limp and black 
fell from it into the road. The tramp picked it up, and 
found it to be a new black silk stocking, long and fine and 
slender. It crunched crisply, and yet with a luxurious soft- 
ness, between his fingers. 

“Tlier bloomin’ little skeezicks !” said Whistling Dick, 
with a broad grin bisecting his freckled face. “W’ot d’ yer 
think of dat, now ! Mer-ry Chris-mus ! Sounded like a 
cuckoo clock, dat’s what she did. Dem guys is swells, too, 
bet yer life, an’ der old ’un stacks dem sacks of dough down 
under his trotters like dey was common as dried apples. 
Been shoppin’ fer Chrismus, and de kid’s lost one of her 
new socks w’ot she was goin’ to hold up Santv wid. De 
bloomin’ little skeezicks ! Wit’ her ‘Mer-ry Chris-mus !* 
W’ot d’ yer t’ink! Same as to say, ‘Hello, Jack, how goes 
it?’ and as swell as Fift’ Av’noo, and as easy as a blowout 
in Cincinnat.” 


4 

Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking 265 

Whistling Dick folded the stocking carefully, and stuffed 
it into his pocket. 

It was nearly two hours later when he came upon signs of 
habitation. The buildings of an extensive plantation were 
brought into view by a turn in the road. He easily selected 
the planter’s residence in a large square building with two 
wings, with numerous good-sized, well-lighted windows, and 
broad verandas running around its full extent. It was set 
upon a smooth lawn, which was faintly lit by the far-reach- 
ing rays of the lamps within. A noble grove surrounded it, 
and old-fashioned shrubbery grew thickly about the walks and 
fences. The quarters of the hands and the mill buildings 
were situated at a distance in the rear. 

The road was now enclosed on each side by a fence, and 
presently, as Whistling Dick drew nearer the houses, he sud- 
denly stopped and snifFed the air. 

“If dere ain’t a hobo stew cookin’ somewhere in dis im- 
mediate precinct,” he said to himself, “me nose has quit 
tellin* de trut’.” 

Without hesitation he climbed the fence to windward. He 
found himself in an apparently disused lot, where piles of 
old bricks were stacked, and rejected, decaying lumber. In 
a corner he saw the faint glow of a fire that had become 
little more than a bed of living coals, and he thought he could 
see some dim human forms sitting or lying about it. He drew 
nearer, and by the light of a little blaze that suddenly flared 
up he saw plainly the fat figure of a ragged man in an old 
brown sweater and cap. 

“Dat man,” said Whistling Dick to himself softly, “is a 
dead ringer for Boston Harry. I’ll try him wit de high 
sign.” 

He whistled one or two bars of a rag-time melody, and the 
air was immediately taken up, and then quickly ended with 


266 


Roads of Destiny 

a peculiar run. The first whistler walked confidently up to 
the fire. The fat man looked up, and spake in a loud, asth- 
matic wheeze: 

"Gents, the unexpected but welcome addition to our circle 
is Mr. Whistling Dick, an old friend of mine for whom I 
fully vouches. The waiter will lay another cover at once. 
Mr. W. D. will join us at supper, during which function he 
will enlighten us in regard to the circumstances that give us 
the pleasure of his company.” 

"Chewin’ de stuffin’ ou ’n de dictionary, as usual, Bos- 
ton,” said Whistling Dick; "but t’anks all de same for de 
invitashum. I guess I finds meself here about de same way 
as yous guys. A cop gimme de tip dis mornin’. Yous work- 
in’ on dis farm?” 

"A guest,” said Boston sternly, "shouldn’t never insult his 
entertainers until he’s filled up wid grub. ’Tain’t good busi- 
ness sense. Workin’ ! — but I will restrain myself. We five 
— me, Deaf Pete, Blinky, Goggles, and Indiana Tom — got 
put on to this scheme of Noo Orleans to work visiting gen- 
tlemen upon her dirty streets, and we hit the road last evening 
just as the tender hues of twilight had flopped down upon 
the daisies and things. Blinky, pass the empty oyster-can 
at your left to the empty gentleman at your right.” 

For the next ten minutes the gang of roadsters paid their 
undivided attention to the supper. In an old five-gallon kero- 
sene can they had cooked a stew of potatoes, meat, and onions, 
which they partook of from smaller cans they had found 
scattered about the vacant lot. 

Whistling Dick had known Boston Harry of old, and knew 
him to be one of the shrewdest and most successful of his 
brotherhood. He looked like a prosperous stock-drover or 
a solid merchant from some country village. He was stout 
and hale, with a ruddy, always smoothly shaven face. His 
slothes were strong and neat, and he gave special attention 


Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking 267 

to his decent-appearing shoes. During the past ten years 
he had acquired a reputation for working a larger number 
of successfully managed confidence games than any of his 
acquaintances, and he had not a day’s work to be counted 
against him. It was rumoured among his associates that he 
had saved a considerable amount of money. The four other 
men were fair specimens of the slinking, ill-clad, noisome 
genus who carried their labels of “suspicious” in plain view. 

After the bottom of the large can had been scraped, and 
pipes lit at the coals, two of the men called Boston aside and 
spake with him lowly and mysteriously. He nodded de- 
cisively, and then said aloud to Whistling Dick: 

“Listen, sonny, to some plain talky-talk. We five are 
on a lay. I’ve guaranteed you to be square, and you’re to 
come in on the profits equal with the boys, and you’ve got 
to help. Two hundred hands on this plantation are expecting 
to be paid a week’s wages to-morrow morning. To-morrow’s 
Christmas, and they want to lay off. Says the boss: ‘Work 
from five to nine in the morning to get a train load of sugar 
off’, and I’ll pay every man cash down for the week and a 
day extra.’ They say: ‘Hooray for the boss! It goes.’ He 
drives to Noo Orleans to-day, and fetches back the cold dol- 
lars. Two thousand and seventy-four fifty is the amount. 
I got the figures from a man who talks too much, who got 
’em from the bookkeeper. The boss of this plantation thinks 
he’s going to pay this wealth to the hands. He’s got it down 
wrong; lie’s going to pay it to us. It’s going to stay in the 
leisure class, where it belongs. Now, half of this haul goes 
to me, and the other half the rest of you may divide. Why 
the difference? I represent the brains. It’s my scheme. 
Here’s the way we’re going to get it. There’s some com- 
pany at supper in the house, but they’ll leave about nine. 
They’ve just happened in for an hour or so. If they don’t 
go pretty soon, we’ll work the scheme anyhow. We want all 


268 


Roads of Destiny 

night to get away good with the dollars. They're heavy. 
About nine o'clock Deaf Pete and Blinky’ll go down the road 
about a quarter beyond the house, and set fire to a big cane- 
field there that the cutters haven't touched yet. The wind's 
just right to have it roaring in two minutes. The alarm'll 
be given, and every man Jack about the place will be down 
there in ten minutes, fighting fire. That’ll leave the money 
sacks and the women alone in the house for us to handle. 
You’ve heard cane burn? Well, there's mighty few women 
can screech loud enough to be heard above its crackling. The 
thing's dead safe. The only danger is in being caught be- 
fore we can get far enough away with the money. Now, if 
you — " 

“Boston," interrupted Whistling Dick, rising to his feet, 
“t'anks for de grub yous fellers has given me, but I'll be 
movin’ on now." 

“What do you mean ?" asked Boston, also rising. 

“W'y, you can count me outer dis deal. You oughter know 
that. I’m on de bum all right enough, but dat other t'ing 
don’t go wit’ me. Burglary is no good. I'll say good night 
and many t’anks fer — " 

Whistling Dick had moved away a few steps as he spoke, 
but he stopped very suddenly. Boston had covered him with 
a short revolver of roomy calibre. 

“Take your seat," said the tramp leader. “I'd feel mighty 
proud of myself if I let you go and spoil the game. You’lJ 
stick right in this camp until we finish the job. The end 
of that brick pile is your limit. You go two inches beyond 
that, and I’ll have to shoot. Better take it easy, now." 

“It’s my way of doin’," said Whistling Dick. “Easy goes. 
You can depress de muzzle of dat twelve-incher, and run 'em 
back on de trucks. I remains, as de newspapers says, 'te 
yer midst' " 


Whistling Dick's Christmas Stocking 269 

“All right/* said Boston, lowering his piece, as the other 
returned and took his seat again on a projecting plank in a 
pile of timber. “Don’t try to leave; that’s all. I wouldn’t 
miss this chance even if I had to shoot an old acquaintance to 
make it go. I don’t want to hurt anybody specially, but this 
thousand dollars I’m going to get will fix me for fair. I’m 
going to drop the road, and start a saloon in a little town I 
know about. I’m tired of being kicked around.” 

Boston Harry took from his pocket a cheap silver watch, 
and held it near the fire. 

“It’s a quarter to nine/' he said. “Pete, you and Blinky 
start. Go down the road past the house, and fire the cane 
in a dozen places. Then strike for the levee, and come back 
on it, instead of the road, so you won’t meet anybody. By 
the time you get back the men will all be striking out for the 
fire, and we’ll break for the house and collar the dollars. 
Everybody cough up what matches he’s got.” 

The two surly tramps made a collection of all the matches 
in the party. Whistling Dick contributing his quota with 
propitiatory alacrity, and then they departed in the dim star- 
light in the direction of the road. 

Of the three remaining vagrants, two, Goggles and In- 
diana Tom, reclined lazily upon convenient lumber and re- 
garded Whistling Dick with undisguised disfavour. Boston, 
observing that the dissenting recruit was disposed to remain 
peaceably, relaxed a little of his vigilance. Whistling Dick 
arose presently and strolled leisurely up and down keeping 
carefully within the territory assigned him. 

“Dis planter chap,” he said, pausing before Boston Harry, 
“w’ot makes yer t’ink he’s got de tin in de house wit’ ’im?” 

“I’m advised of the facts in the case,” said Boston. “He 
drove to Noo Orleans and got it, I say, to-day. Want to 
change your «aind now and come in?” 


270 Roads of Destiny 

“Naw, I was just askin’. Wot kind o’ team did de boss 
drive?” 

'‘Pair of grays.” 

“Double surrey?” 

“Yep.” 

“Women folks along?” 

“Wife and kid. Say, what morning paper are you trying 
to pump news for?” 

“I was just conversin’ to pass de time away. I guess 
dat team passed me in de road dis evenin’. Dat’s all.” 

As Whistling Dick put his hands into his pockets and con- 
tinued his curtailed beat up and down by the fire, he felt the 
silk stocking he had picked up in the road. 

“Ther bloomin’ little skeezicks,” he muttered, with a grin. 

As he walked up and down he could see, through a sort 
of natural opening or lane among the trees, the planter’s 
residence some seventy-five yards distant. The side of the 
house toward him exhibited spacious, well-lighted windows 
through which a soft radiance streamed, illuminating the broad 
veranda and some extent of the lawn beneath. 

“What’s that you said?” asked Boston, sharply. 

“Oh, nuttin’ ’t all,” said Whistling Dick, lounging care- 
lessly, and kicking meditatively at a little stone on the ground. 

“Just as easy,” continued the warbling vagrant softly to 
himself, “an’ sociable an’ swell an’ sassy, wit’ her ‘Mer-ry 
Chris-mus,’ Wot d’yer t’ink, now!” 

Dinner, two hours late, was being served in the Bellemeade 
plantation dining-room. 

The dining-room and all its appurtenances spoke of an old 
regime that was here continued rather than suggested to the 
memory. The plate was rich to the extent that its age and 
quaintness alone saved it from being showy; there were in- 
teresting names signed in the corners of the pictures on thfr 


Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking 271 

walls; the viands were of the kind that bring a shine into 
the eyes of gourmets. The service was swift, silent, lavish, 
as in the days when the waiters were assets like the plate. 
The names by which the planter’s family and their visitors 
addressed one another were historic in the annals of two na- 
tions. Their manners and conversation had that most dif- 
ficult kind of ease — the kind that still preserves punctilio. 
The planter himself seemed to be the dynamo that generated 
the larger portion of the gaiety and wit. The younger ones 
at the board found it more than difficult to turn back on 
him his guns of raillery and banter. It is true, the young 
men attempted to storm his works repeatedly, incited by the 
hope of gaining the approbation of their fair companions; 
but even when they sped a well-aimed shaft, the planter 
forced them to feel defeat by the tremendous discomfiting 
thunder of the laughter with which he accompanied his re- 
torts. At the head of the table, serene, matronly, benevolent, 
reigned the mistress of the house, placing here and there the 
right smile, the right word, the encouraging glance. 

The talk of the party was too desultory, too evanescent to 
follow, but at last they came to the subject of the tramp 
nuisance, one that had of late vexed the plantations for many 
miles around. The planter seized the occasion to direct his 
good-natured fire of raillery at the mistress, accusing her of 
encouraging the plague. “They swarm up and dov/n the 
river every winter,” he said. “They overrun New Orleans, 
and we catch the surplus, which is generally the worst part. 
And, a day or two ago, Madame New Orleans, suddenly dis- 
covering that she can’t go shopping without brushing her 
skirts against great rows of the vagabonds sunning them- 
selves on the banquettes, says to the police: 'Catch ’em all/ 
and the police catch a dozen or two, and the remaining three 
or four thousand overflow up and down the levees, and ma- 
dame there” — pointing tragically with the carving-knife at 


272 


Roads of Destiny 

her — “feeds them. They won't work; they defy my over- 
seers, and they make friends with my dogs ; and you, madame, 
feed them before my eyes, and intimidate me when I would in- 
terfere. Tell us, please, how many to-day did you thus incite 
to future laziness and depredation?" 

“Six’, I think," said madame, with a reflective smile; “but 
you know two of them offered to work, for you heard them 
yourself." 

The planter's disconcerting laugh rang out again. 

“Yes, at their own trades. And one was an artificial- 
flower maker, and the other a glass-blower. Oh, they were 
looking for work! Not a hand would they consent to lift to 
labour of any other kind." 

“And another one," continued the soft-hearted mistress, 
“used quite good language. It was really extraordinary for 
one of his class. And he carried a watch. And had lived in 
Boston. I don’t believe they are all bad. They have always 
seemed to me to rather lack development. I always look 
upon them as children with whom wisdom has remained at a 
standstill while whiskers have continued to grow. We passed 
one this evening as we were driving home who had a face as 
good as it was incompetent. He was whistling the inter- 
mezzo from Tavalleria' and blowing the spirit of Mascagni 
himself into it." 

A bright-eyed young girl who sat at the left of the mis- 
press leaned over, and said in a confidential undertone: 

“I wonder, mamma, if that tramp we passed on the road 
found my stocking, and do you think he will hang it up to- 
night? Now I can hang up but one. Do you know why I 
wanted a new pair of silk stockings when I have plenty? 
Well, old Aunt Judy says, if you hang up two that have 
never been worn, Santa Claus will fill one with good things, 
and Monsieur Pambe will place in the other payment for all 
the words you have spoken — good or bad — on the day be- 


Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking 273 

fore Christmas. That's why I’ve been unusually nice and 
polite to everyone to-day. Monsieur Pambe, you know* is a 
witch gentleman ; he — " 

The words of the young girl were interrupted by a startling 
thing. 

Like the wraith of some burned-out shooting star, a black 
streak came crashing through the window-pane and upon the 
table, where it shivered into fragments a dozen pieces of 
crystal and china ware, and then glanced between the heads 
of the guests to the wall, imprinting therein a deep, round 
indentation, at which, to-day, the visitor to Bellemeade mar- 
vels as he gazes upon it and listens to this tale as it is told. 

The women screamed in many keys, and the men sprang 
to their feet, and would have laid their hands upon their 
swords had not the verities of chronology forbidden. 

The planter was the first to act; he sprang to the intruding 
missile, and held it up to view. 

“By Jupiter!" he cried. “A meteoric shower of hosiery! 
Has communication at last been established with Mars?" 

“I should say — ahem ! — Venus," ventured a young-gen- 
tleman visitor, looking hopefully for approbation toward the 
unresponsive young-lady visitors. 

The planter held at arm's length the unceremonious visitor 
— a long dangling black stocking. “It’s loaded," he an- 
nounced. 

As he spoke he reversed the stocking, holding it by the toe, 
and down from it dropped a roundish stone, wrapped about 
by a piece of yellowish paper. “Now for the first interstellar 
message of the century!" he cried; and nodding to the com- 
pany, who had crowded about him, he adjusted his glasses 
with provoking deliberation, and examined it closely. When 
he finished, he had changed from the jolly host to the prac- 
tical, decisive man of business. He immediately struck a 
bell, and said to the silent-footed mulatto man who responded: 


274 


Roads of Destiny 

“Go and tell Mr. Wesley to get Reeves and Maurice and 
about ten stout hands they can rely upon, and come to the 
hall door at once. Tell him to have the men arm themselves, 
and bring plenty of ropes and plough lines. Tell him to 
hurry.” And then he read aloud from the paper these words: 

To the Gent of de Hous: 

Dere is five tuff hoboes xcept meself in the vaken lot near de 
soad war de old brick piles is. Dey got me stuck up wid a gun see 
*md I taken dis means of comunikaten. 2 of der lads is gone down 
*o set fire to de cain field below de hous and when yous fellers goes 
to turn de hoes on it de hole gang is goin to rob de hous of de 
money yoo gotto pay off wit say git a move on ye say de kid dropt 
dis sock in der rode tel her mery crismus de same as she told me. 
Ketch de bums down de rode first and den sen a relefe core to get 
me out of soke youres truly, Whistlen Dick. 

There was some quiet, but rapid, manoeuvring at Bellemeade 
during the ensuing half hour, which ended in five disgusted 
and sullen tramps being captured, and locked securely in an 
outhouse pending the coming of the morning and retribu- 
tion. For another result, the visiting young gentlemen had 
secured the unqualified worship of the visiting young ladies 
by their distinguished and heroic conduct. For still another, 
behold Whistling Dick, the hero, seated at the planter’s 
table, feasting upon viands his experience had never before 
included, and waited upon by admiring femininity in shapes 
of such beauty and “swellness” that even his ever-full mouth 
could scarcely prevent him from whistling. He was made 
to disclose in detail his adventure with the evil gang of Boston 
Harry, and how he cunningly wrote the note and wrapped it 
around the stone and placed it in the toe of the stocking, and, 
watching his chance, sent it silently, with a wonderful cen- 
trifugal momentum, like a comet, at one of the big lighted 
windows of the dining-room. 

The planter vowed that the wanderer should wander no 


Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking 275 

more; that his was a goodness and an honesty that should be 
rewarded, and that a debt of gratitude had been made that 
must be paid; for had he not saved them from a doubtless 
imminent loss, and maybe a greater calamity? He assured 
Whistling Dick that he might consider himself a charge upon 
the honour of Bellemeade; that a position suited to his pow- 
ers would be found for him at once, and hinted that the way 
would be heartily smoothed for him to rise to as high places 
of emolument and trust as the plantation afforded. 

But now, they said; he must be weary, and the immediate 
thing to consider was rest and sleep. So the mistress spoke 
to a servant, and Whistling Dick was conducted to a room 
in the wing of the house occupied by the servants. To this 
room, in a few minutes, was brought a portable tin bathtub 
filled with water, which was placed on a piece of oiled cloth 
upon the floor. There the vagrant was left to pass the night. 

By the light of a candle he examined the room. A bed, 
with the covers neatly turned back, revealed snowy pillows 
and sheets. A worn, but clean, red carpet covered the floor. 
There was a dresser with a beveled mirror, a washstand with 
a flowered bowl and pitcher; the two or three chairs were 
softly upholstered. A little table held books, papers, and 
a day-old cluster of roses in a jar. There were towels on a 
rack and soap in a white dish. 

Whistling Dick set his candle on a chair and placed his 
hat carefully under the table. After satisfying what we 
must suppose to have been his curiosity by a sober scrutiny, 
he removed his coat, folded it, and laid it upon the floor, near 
the wall, as far as possible from the unused bathtub. Taking 
his coat for a pillow, he stretched himself luxuriously upon 
the carpet. 

When, on Christmas morning, the first streaks of dawn 
broke above the marshes, Whistling Dick awoke, and reached 
instinctively for his hat. Then he remembered that the skirts 


276 


Roads of Destiny 

of Fortune had swept him into their folds on the night pre- 
vious, and he went to the window and raised it, to let the 
fresh breath of the morning cool his brow and fix the yet 
dream-like memory of his good luck within his brain. 

As he stood there, certain dread and ominous sounds pierced 
the fearful hollow of his ear. 

The force of plantation workers, eager to complete the 
shortened task allotted to them, were all astir. The mighty 
din of the ogre Labour shook the earth, and the poor tattered 
and forever disguised Prince in search of his fortune held 
tight to the window-sill even in the enchanted castle, and 
trembled. 

Already from the bosom of the mill came the thunder of 
rolling barrels of sugar, and (prison-like sounds) there was 
a great rattling of chains as the mules were harried with stimu- 
lant imprecations to their places by the waggon-tongues. A 
little vicious “dummy” engine, with a train of flat cars in 
tow, stewed and fumed on the plantation tap of the narrow- 
gauge railroad, and a toiling, hurrying, hallooing stream of 
workers were dimly seen in the half darkness loading the 
train with the weekly output of sugar. Here was a poem; 
an epic — nay, a tragedy — with work, the curse of the world, 
for its theme. 

The December air was frosty, but the sweat broke out upon 
Whistling Dick's face. He thrust his head out of the win- 
dow, and looked down. Fifteen feet below him, against the 
wall of the house, he could make out that a border of flow- 
ers grew, and by that token he overhung a bed of soft earth. 

Softly as a burglar goes, he clambered out upon the sill, 
lowered himself until he hung by his hands alone, and then 
dropped safely. No one seemed to be about upon this side 
of the house. He dodged low, and skimmed swiftly across 
the yard to the low fence. It was an easy matter to vault 
this, for a terror urged him such as lifts the gazelle over 


Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking 277 

the thorn bush when the lion pursues. A crash through the 
dew-drenched weeds on the roadside, a clutching, slippery 
rush up the grassy side of the levee to the footpath at the 
summit, and — he was free ! 

The east was blushing and brightening. The wind, him- 
self a vagrant rover, saluted his brother upon the cheek. Some 
wild geese, high above, gave cry. A rabbit skipped along 
the path before him, free to turn to the right or to the left 
as his mood should send him. The river slid past, and cer- 
tainly no one could tell the ultimate abiding place of its 
waters. 

A small, ruffled, brown-breasted bird, sitting upon a dog- 
wood sapling, began a soft, throaty, tender little piping in 
praise of the dew which entices foolish worms from their 
holes; but suddenly he stopped, and sat with his head turned 
sidewise, listening. 

From the path along the levee there burst forth a jubilant, 
stirring, buoyant, thrilling whistle, loud and keen and clear 
as the cleanest notes of the piccolo. The soaring sound rip- 
pled and trilled and arpeggioed as the songs of wild birds 
do not; but it had a wild free grace that, in a way, reminded 
the small brown bird of something familiar, but exactly what 
he could not tell. There was in it the bird call, or reveille, 
that all birds know; but a great waste of lavish, unmeaning 
things that art had added and arranged, besides, and that 
were quite puzzling and strange; and the little brown bird 
sat with his head on one side until the sound died away in the 
distance. 

The little bird did not know that the part of that strange 
warbling that he understood was just what kept the warbler 
without his breakfast; but he knew very well that the part he 
did not understand did not concern him, so he gave a little 
flutter of his wings and swooped down like a brown bullet 
upon a big fat worm that was wriggling along the levee path. 


XX 


THE HALBERDIER OF THE LITTLE RHEIN- 
SCHLOSS 

GO sometimes into the Bierhalle and restaurant called Old 
Munich. Not long ago it was a resort of interesting Bo- 
hemians, but now only artists and musicians and literary folk 
frequent it. But the Pilsner is yet good, and I take some 
diversion from the conversation of Waiter No. 18 . 

For many years the customers of Old Munich have ac- 
cepted the place as a faithful copy from the ancient German 
town. The big hall with its smoky rafters, rows of im- 
ported steins, portrait of Goethe, and verses painted on the 
walls — translated into German from the original of the Cin- 
cinnati poets — seems atmospherically correct when viewed 
through the bottom of a glass. 

But not long ago the proprietors added the room above* 
called it the Little Rheinschloss, and built in a stairway. Up 
there was an imitation stone parapet, ivy-covered, and the 
walls were painted to represent depth and distance, with 
the Rhine winding at the base of the vineyarded slopes, 
and the castle of Ehrenbreitstein looming directly opposite 
the entrance. Of course there were tables and chairs; and 
you could have beer and food brought you, as you naturally 
would on the top of a castle on the Rhine. 

I went into Old Munich one afternoon when there were 
few customers, and sat at my usual table near the stairway. 
I was shocked and almost displeased to perceive that the 
glass cigar-case b ^ the orchestra stand had been smashed to 

P 78 


The Halberdier of the Rheinschloss 279 

smithereens. I did not like things to happen in Old Munich. 
Nothing had ever happened there before. 

Waiter No. 18 came and breathed on my neck. I was his 
by right of discovery. Eighteen’s brain was built like a 
corral. It was full of ideas which, when he opened the gate, 
came huddling out like a flock of sheep that might get to- 
gether afterward or might not. I did not shine as a shep- 
herd. As a type Eighteen fitted nowhere. I did not find 
out if he had a nationality, famity, creed, grievance, 1 obby, 
'soul, preference, home or vote. He only came always to 
my table and, as long as his leisure would permit, let words 
flutter from him like swallows leaving a barn at daylight. 

“How did the cigar-case come to be broken, Eighteen ?” 
I asked, with a certain feeling of personal grievance. 

“I can tell you about that, sir,” said he, resting his foot 
on the chair next to mine. “Did you ever have anybody 
hand you a double handful of good luck while both your hands 
was full of bad luck, and stop to notice how your fingers be- 
haved?” 

“No riddles. Eighteen,” said I. “Leave out palmistry and 
manicuring.” 

“You remember,” said Eighteen, “the guy in the ham- 
mered brass Prince Albert and the oroide gold pants and the 
amalgamated copper hat, that carried the combination meat- 
axe, ice-pick, and liberty-pole, and used to stand on the first 
landing as you go up to the Little Rindslosli?” 

“Why, yes,” said I. “The halberdier. I never noticed 
him particularly. I remember I thought he was only a suit 
of armour. He had a perfect poise.” 

“He had more than that,” said Eighteen. “He was me 
friend. He was an advertisement. The boss hired him to 
stand on the stairs for a kind of scenery to show there was 
something doing in the has-been line upstairs. What did you 
call him — a what kind of a beer ?” 


280 


Roads of Destiny 

“A halberdier/’ said I. “That was an ancient man-at- 
arms of many hundred years ago.” 

“Some mistake/’ said Eighteen. “This one wasn’t that 
old. He wasn’t over twenty-three or four. 

“It was the boss’s idea, rigging a man up in an ante-bellum 
suit of tinware and standing him on the landing of the slosh. 
He bought the goods at a Fourth Avenue antique store, and 
hung a sign out : 'Able-bodied hal — halberdier wanted. 
Costume furnished.’ 

“The same morning a young man with wrecked good clothes 
and a hungry look comes in, bringing the sign with him. I 
was filling the mustard-pots at my station. 

“ ‘I’m it/ says he, 'whatever it is. But I never halber- 
diered in a restaurant. Put me on. Is it a masquerade?’ 

“ ‘I hear talk in the kitchen of a fishball/ says I. 

“ ‘Bully for you, Eighteen/ says he. 'You and I’ll get 
on. Show me the boss’s desk.’ 

“Well, the boss tries the Harveyized pajamas on him, and 
they fitted him like the scales on a baked redsnapper, and he 
gets the job. You’ve seen what it is — he stood straight up 
in the corner of the first landing with his halberd to his 
shoulder, looking right ahead and guarding the Portugals of 
the castle. The boss is nutty about having the true Old- 
World flavour to his joint. 'Halberdiers goes with Rind- 
sloshes/ says he, 'j ust as rats goes with rathskellers and 
white cotton stockings with Tyrolean villages.’ The boss is 
a kind of a antiologist, and is all posted up on data and such 
information. 

“From 8 p. m. to two in the morning was the halberdier’s 
hours. He got two meals with us help and a dollar a night. 
I eat with him at the table. He liked me. He never told 
his name. He was travelling impromptu, like kings, I guess. 
The first time at supper I says to him: 'Have some more 
of the spuds, Mr. Frelinghuysen/ 'Oh don’t be so formal, 


The Halberdier of the Rheinschloss 281 

and offish, Eighteen/ says he. ‘Call me Hal — that's short 
for halberdier.' ‘Oh, don’t think I wanted to pry for names/ 
says I. ‘I know all about the dizzy fall from wealth and 
greatness. We’ve got a count washing dishes in the kitchen; 
and the third bartender used to be a Pullman conductor. And 
th*ey work, Sir Percival/ says I, sarcastic. 

“ ‘Eighteen/’ says he, ‘as a friendly devil in a cabbage- 
scented hell, would you mind cutting up this piece of steak 
for me? I don’t say that it’s got more muscle than I have, 
but — ’ And then he shows me the insides of his hands. 
They was blistered and cut and corned and swelled up till they 
looked like a couDle of flank steaks criss-crossed with a knife 
— the kind the butchers hide and take home, knowing what is 
the best. 

“ ‘Shoveling coal/ says he, ‘and piling bricks and loading 
drays. But they gave out, and I had to resign. I was born 
for a halberdier, and I’ve been educated for twenty-four years 
to fill the position. Now, quit knocking my profession, and 
pass along a lot more of that ham. I’m holding the closing ex- 
ercises/ says he, ‘of a forty-eight-hour fast.’ 

“The second night he was on the job he walks down from 
his corner to the cigar-case and calls for cigarettes. The 
customers at the tables all snicker out loud to show their ac- 
quaintance with history. The boss is on. 

“ ‘An’ — let’s see — oh, yes — ‘An anarchism,' says the 
boss. ‘Cigarettes was not made at the time when halberdiers 
was invented.’ 

“ ‘The ones you sell was/ says Sir Percival. ‘Caporal wins 
from chronology by the length of a cork tip.’ So he gets 
’em and lights one, and puts the box in his brass helmet, and 
goes back to patrolling the Rindslosh. 

“He made a big hit, 'specially with the ladies. Some of 
'em would poke him with their fingers to see if he was real 
or only a kind of a stuffed figure like they burn in elegy. 


282 


Roads of Destiny 

And when he'd move they’d squeak, and make eyes at him 
as they went up to the slosh. He looked fine in his halber- 
dashery. He slept at $2 a week in a hall-room on Third 
Avenue. He invited me up there one night. He had a little 
book on the washstand that he read instead of shopping in 
the saloons after hours. T’m on to that/ says I, ‘from read- 
ing about it in novels. All the heroes on the bum carry the 
little book. It’s either Tantalus or Liver or. Horace, and 
it’s printed in Latin, and you’re a college man. And I 
wouldn’t be surprised/ says I, ‘if you wasn’t educated, too.’ 
But it was only the batting averages of the League for the 
last ten years. 

“One night, about half past eleven, there comes in a party 
of these high-rollers that are always hunting up new places 
to eat in and poke fun at. There was a swell girl in a 40 
H.-P. auto tan coat and veil, and a fat old man with white 
side-whiskers, and a young chap that couldn’t keep his feet 
off the tail of the girl’s coat, and an oldish lady that looked 
upon life as immoral and unnecessary. ‘How perfectly de- 
lightful/ they says, ‘to sup in a slosh.’ Up the stairs they 
go; and in half a minute back down comes the girl, her skirts 
swishing like the waves on the beach. She stops on the 
landing and looks our halberdier in the eye. 

“ ‘You!’ she says, with a smile that reminded me of lemon 
sherbet. I was waiting up-stairs in the slosh, then, and I 
was right down here by the door, putting some vinegar and 
cayenne into an empty bottle of tabasco, and I heard all they 
said. 

“ ‘It/ says Sir Percival, without moving. T’m only local 
colour. Are my hauberk, helmet, and halberd on straight?’ 

“‘Is there an explanation to this?’ says she. ‘Is it a 
practical joke such as men play in those Griddle-cake and 
Lamb Clubs? I’m afraid I don’t see the point. I heard, 


The Halberdier of the Rheinschloss 283 

Vaguely, that you were away. For three months I — we 
have not seen you or heard from you/ 

“ ‘I'm halberdiering for my living/ says the statue. ‘I'm 
working/ says he. ‘I don’t suppose you know what work 
means.' 

“ ‘H?,ve you — have you lost your money?' she asks. 

“Sir Percival studies a minute. 

“ ‘I am poorer/ says he, ‘than the poorest sandwich man 
on the streets — if I don't earn my living.' 

“ ‘You call this work?' says she. ‘I thought a man worked 
with his hands or his head instead of becoming a mountebank.' 

“ ‘The calling of a halberdier,' says he, ‘is an ancient and 
honourable one. Sometimes,' says he, ‘the man-at-arms at 
the door has saved the castle while the plumed knights were 
cake-walking in the banquet-halls above.' 

“ ‘I see you're not ashamed,' says she, ‘of your peculiar 
tastes. I wonder, though, that the manhood I used to think 
I saw in you didn’t prompt you to draw water or hew wood 
instead of publicly flaunting your ignominy in this disgrace- 
ful masquerade.' 

“Sir Percival kind of rattles his armour and says: ‘Helen, 
will you suspend sentence in this matter for just a little 
while? You don’t understand,' says he. ‘I've got to hold 
this job down a bit longer.' 

“ ‘You like being a harlequin — or halberdier, as you call 
it?' says she. 

“ ‘I wouldn't get thrown out of the job just now/ says he, 
with a grin, ‘to be appointed Minister to the Court of St. 
James's.' 

“And then the 40 H.-P. girl's eyes sparkled as hard as 
diamonds. 

“ ‘Very well,' says she. ‘You shall have full run of your 
serving-man's tastes this night.' And she swims over to the 


284 Roads of Destiny 

boss’s desk and gives him a smile that knocks the specks off 
his nose. 

" ‘I think your Rindslosh/ says she, 'is as beautiful as a 
dream. It is a little slice of "the Old World set down in New 
York. We shall have a nice supper up there; but if you will 
grant us one favour the illusion will be perfect — give us your 
halberdier to wait on our table/ 

"That hit the boss’s antiology hobby just right. 'Sure/ 
says he, 'dot vill be fine. Und der orchestra shall blay "Die 
Waclit am Rhein” all der time/ And he goes over and tells 
the halberdier to go upstairs and hustle the grub at the swells’ 
table. 

" 'I’m on the job/ says Sir Percival, taking off his hel- 
met and hanging it on his halberd and leaning ’em in the 
corner. The girl goes up and takes her seat and I see her 
jaw squared tight under her smile. 'We’re going to be 
waited on by a real halberdier,’ says she, 'one who is proud of 
his profession. Isn’t it sweet?’ 

" 'Ripping/ says the swell young man. 'Much prefer 
a waiter/ says the fat old gent. 'I hope he doesn’t come 
from a cheap museum/ says the old lady; 'he might have 
microbes in his costume/ 

"Before he goes to the table. Sir Percival takes me by the 
arm. 'Eighteen/ says he, 'I’ve got to pull off this job with- 
out a blunder. You coach me straight or I’ll take that hal- 
berd and make hash out of you/ And then he goes up to the 
table with his coat of mail on and a napkin over his arm and 
waits for the order. 

" 'Why, it’s Deering !’ says the young swell. 'Hello, old 
man. What the — ’ 

" ‘Beg pardon, sir/ interrupts the halberdier, 'I’m waiting 
on the table/ 

"The old man looks at him grim, like a Boston bull. 'So, 
Deering/ he says, you’re at work yet/ 


The Halberdier of the Eheinschloss 285 

“ ‘Yes, sir/ says Sir Percival, quiet and gentlemanly as I 
could have been myself, ‘for almost three months, now/ 
‘You haven’t been discharged during the time?’ asks the old 
man. ‘Not once, sir/ says he, ‘though I’ve had to change 
my work several times/ 

“ ‘Waiter/ orders the girl, short and sharp, ‘another nap- 
kin/ He brings her one, respectful. 

“I never saw more devil, if I may say it, stirred up in a 
lady. There was two bright red spots on her cheeks, and 
her eyes looked exactly like a wildcat’s I’d seen in the zoo. 
Her foot kept slapping the floor all the time. 

“ ‘Waiter,’ she orders, ‘bring me Altered water without 
ice. Bring me a footstool. Take away this empty salt- 
cellar/ She kept him on the jump. She was sure giving 
the halberdier his. 

“There wasn’t but a few customers up in the slosh at that 
time, so I hung out near the door so I could help Sir Per- 
cival serve. 

“He got along fine with the olives and celery and the 
bluepoints. They was easy. And then the consomme came 
up the dumb-waiter all in one big silver tureen. Instead of 
serving it from the side-table he picks it up between his 
hands and starts to the dining-table with it. When nearly 
there he drops the tureen smash on the floor, and the soup 
soaks all the lower part of that girl’s swell silk dress. 

“ ‘Stupid — incompetent/ says she, giving him a look. 
‘Standing in a corner with a halberd seems to be your mis- 
sion in life/ 

“ ‘Pardon me, lady/ says he. ‘It was just a little bit hot- 
ter than blazes. I couldn’t help it/ 

“The old man pulls out a memorandum book and hunts in 
it. ‘The 25th of April, Deering/ says he. ‘I know it/ 
says Sir Percival. ‘And ten minutes to twelve o’clock/ says 
the old man. ‘By Jupiter! you haven’t won yet/ And he 


286 


Roads of Destiny 

pounds the table with his fist and yells to me: ‘Waiter, call 
the manager at once — tell him to hurry here as fast as he 
can.’ I go after the boss, and old Brockmann hikes up to the 
slosh on the jump. 

“ ‘I want this man discharged at once/ roars the old guy. 
‘Look what he's done. Ruined my daughter’s dress. It cost 
at least $ 600 . Discharge this awkward lout at once or I’ll sue 
you for the price of it.’ 

“ ‘Dis is bad pizness,’ says the boss. ‘Six hundred dol- 
lars is much. I reckon I vill haf to — ’ 

“ ‘Wait a minute, Herr Brockmann/ says Sir Percival, easy 
and smiling. But he was worked up under his tin suitings; 
I could see that. And then he made the finest, neatest little 
speech I ever listened to. I can’t give you the words, of 
course. He give the millionaires a lovely roast in a sarcastic 
way, describing their automobiles and opera-boxes and dia- 
monds; and then he got around to the working-classes and 
the kind of grub they eat and the long hours they work — 
and all that sort of stuff — bunkum, of course. ‘The rest- 
less rich,’ says he, ‘never content with their luxuries, always 
prowling among the haunts of the poor and humble, amusing 
themselves with the imperfections and misfortunes of their 
fellow men and women. And even here, Herr Brockmann/ 
he says, ‘in this beautiful Rindslosh, a grand and enlighten- 
ing reproduction of Old-World history and architecture, they 
come to disturb its symmetry and picturesqueness by demand- 
ing in their arrogance that the halberdier of the castle wait 
upon their table! I have faithfully and conscientiously/ says 
he, 'performed my duties as a halberdier. I know nothing 
of a waiter’s duties. It was the insolent whim of these tran- 
sient, pampered aristocrats that I should be detailed to serve 
them food. Must I be blamed — must I be deprived of the 
means of a livelihood/ he goes on, ‘on account of an acci- 
dent that was the result of their own presumption and. 


The Halberdier of the Eheinschloss 28 7 

haughtiness? But what hurts me more than all/ says Sir 
Percival, ‘is the desecration that has been done to this splen- 
did Rindslosh — the confiscation of its halberdier to serve 
menially at the banquet board.' 

“Even I could see that this stuff was piffle; but it caught 
the boss. 

“ ‘Mein Gott/ says he, ‘you vas right. Ein halberdier 
have not got der right to dish up soup. Him I vill not dis- 
charge. Have anoder waiter if you like, and let mein hal- 
berdier go back and stand mit liis halberd. But, gentlemen/ 
he says, pointing to the old man, ‘you go ahead and sue mit 
der dress. Sue me for $600 or $6,000. I stand der suit/ 
And the boss puffs off down-stairs. Old Brockmann was an 
all-right Dutchman. 

“Just then the clock strikes twelve, and the old guy laughs 
loud. ‘You win, Deering/ says he. ‘Let me exjjlain to 
all,' he goes on. ‘Some time ago Mr. Deering asked me for 
something that I did not want to give him/ (I looks at the 
girl, and she turns as red as a pickled beet.) ‘I told him/ 
says the old guy, ‘if he would earn his own living for three 
months without once being discharged for incompetence, I 
would give him what he wanted. It seems that the time was 
up at twelve o'clock to-night. I came near fetching you, 
though, Deering, on that soup question,' says the old boy, 
standing up and grabbing Sir Percival’s hand. 

“The halberdier lets out a yell and j umps three feet high. 

“ ‘Look out for those hands,' says he, and he holds 'em 
up. You never saw such hands except on a labourer in a 
limestone quarry. 

“ ‘Heavens, boy !' says old side-whiskers, ‘what have you 
been doing to 'em?' 

“ ‘Oh,' says Sir Percival, ‘little chores like hauling coal 
and excavating rock till they went back on me. And when 
I couldn’t hold a pick or a whip I took up halberdiering to 


288 


Roads of Destiny 

give ’em a rest. Tureens full of hot soup don’t seem to be 
a particularly soothing treatment/ 

“I would have bet on that girl. That high-tempered kind 
always go as far the other way, according to my experience. 
She whizzes round the table like a cyclone and catches both 
his hands in hers. Toor hands — dear hands/ she sings 
out, and sheds tears on ’em and holds ’em close to her bosom. 
Well, sir, with all that Hindslosh scenery it was just like a 
play. And the halberdier sits down at the table at the girl’s 
side, and I served the rest of the supper. And that was about 
all, except that when they left he shed his hardware store and 
went with ’em.” 

I dislike to be side-tracked from an original proposition. 

“But you haven’t told me, Eighteen,” said I, “how the 
cigar-case came to be broken.” 

“Oh, that was last night,” said Eighteen. “Sir Percival 
and the girl drove up in a cream-coloured motor-car, and 
had dinner in the Bindslosh. ‘The same table, Billy,’ I heard 
her say as they went up. I waited on ’em. We’ve got a new 
halberdier now, a bow-legged guy with a face like a sheep. 
As they came down-stairs Sir Percival passes him a ten-case 
note. The new halberdier drops his halberd, and it falls on 
the cigar-case. That’s how that happened.” 


XXI 


TWO RENEGADES 

I N the Gate City of the South the Confederate Veterans 
were reuniting; and I stood to see them march, beneath the 
tangled flags of the great conflict, to the hall of their oratory 
and commemoration. 

While the irregular and halting line was passing I made 
onslaught upon it and dragged forth from the ranks my friend 
Barnard O’Keefe, who had no right to be there. For he was a 
Northerner born and bred; and what should he be doing halloo- 
ing for the Stars and Bars among those gray and moribund 
veterans? And why should he be trudging, with his shining, 
martial, humorous, broad face, among those warriors of a pre- 
vious and alien generation? 

I say I dragged him forth, and held him till the last hick- 
ory leg and waving goatee had stumbled past. And then I 
hustled him out of the crowd into a cool interior; for the 
Gate City was stirred that day, and the hand-organs wisely 
eliminated “Marching Through Georgia” from their reper- 
tories. 

“Now, what deviltry are you up to?” I asked of O’Keefe 
when there were a table and things in glasses between us. 

O’Keefe wiped his heated face and instigated a commotion 
among the floating ice in his glass before he chose to an- 
swer. 

“I am assisting at the wake,” said he, “of the only na- 
tion on earth that ever did me a good turn. As one gentle- 
man to another, I am ratifying and celebrating the foreign 

289 


290 Roads of Destiny 

policy of the late Jefferson Davis, as fine a statesman as 
ever settled the financial question of a country. Equal ratio 
— that was his platform — a barrel of money for a barrel of 
flour — a pair of $20 bills for a pair of boots — a hatful of 
currency for a new hat — say, ain’t that simple compared 
with W. J. B.’s little old oxidized plank ?” 

“What talk is this?” I asked. “Your financial digres- 
sion is merely a subterfuge. Why were you marching in the 
ranks of the Confederate Veterans?” 

“Because, my lad,” answered O’Keefe, “the Confederate 
Government in its might and power interposed to protect and 
defend Barnard O’Keefe against immediate and dangerous 
assassination at the hands of a blood-thirsty foreign country 
after the United States of America had overruled his appeal 
for protection, and had instructed Private Secretary Cortelyou 
to reduce his estimate of the Republican majority for 1905 by 
one vote.” 

“Come, Barney,” said I, “the Confederate States of 
America has been out of existence nearly forty years. You 
do not look older yourself. When was it that the deceased 
government exerted its foreign policy in your behalf?” 

“Four months ago,” said O’Keefe promptly. “The in- 
famous foreign power I alluded to is still staggering from 
the official blow dealt it by Mr. Davis’s contraband aggrega- 
tion of states. That’s why you see me cake-walking with 
the ex-rebs to the illegitimate tune about ’simmon-seeds and 
cotton. I vote for the Great Father in Washington, but I 
am not going back on Mars’ Jeff. You say the Confederacy 
has been dead forty years? Well, if it hadn’t been for it, 
I’d have been breathing to-day with soul so dead I couldn’t 
have whispered a single cuss-word about my native land. The 
O’Keefes are not overburdened with ingratitude.” 

I must have looked bewildered. “The war was over,” I 
said vacantly, “in — ” 


291 


Two Renegades 

O’Keefe laughed loudly, scattering my thoughts. 

“Ask old Doc Millikin if the war is over !” he shouted, 
hugely diverted. “Oh, no ! Doc hasn’t surrendered yet. 
And the Confederate States! Well, I just told you they 
bucked officially and solidly and nationally against a foreign 
government four months ago and kept me from being shot. 
Old Jeff’s country stepped in and brought me off under its 
wing while Roosevelt was having a gunboat painted and 
waiting for the National Campaign Committee to look up 
whether I had ever scratched the ticket.” 

“Isn’t there a story in this, Barney ?” I asked. 

“No,” said O’Keefe; “but I’ll give you the facts. You 
know I went down to Panama when this irritation about a 
canal began. I thought I’d get in on the ground floor. I 
did, and had to sleep on it, and drink water with little zoos 
in it; so, of course, I got the Chagres fever. That was in a 
little town called San Juan on the coast. 

“After I got the fever hard enough to kill a Port-au-Prince 
nigger, I had a relapse in the shape of Doc Millikin. 

“There was a doctor to attend a sick man! If Doc Milli- 
kin had your case, he made the terrors of death seem like an 
invitation to a donkey-party. He had the bedside manners 
of a Piute medicine-man and the soothing presence of a dray 
loaded with iron bridge-girders. When he laid his hand on 
your fevered brow you felt like Cap John Smith just before 
Pocahontas went his bail. 

“Well, this old medical outrage floated down to my shack 
when I sent for him. He was built like a shad, and his eye- 
brows was black, and his white whiskers trickled down from 
his chin like milk coming out of a sprinkling-pot. Pie had a 
nigger boy along carrying an old tomato-can full of calomel, 
and a saw. 

“Doc felt my pulse* and then he began to mess up some 


292 Roads of Destiny 

calomel with an agricultural implement that belonged to the 
trowel class. 

“I don’t want any death-mask made yet, Doc/ I says, 'nor 
my liver put in a plaster-of-Paris cast. I’m sick; and it’s 
medicine I need, not frescoing.* 

" 'You’re a blame Yankee, ain’t you?* asked Doc, going on 
mixing up his Portland cement. 

" 'I’m from the North,’ says I, 'but I’m a plain man, and 
don’t care for mural decorations. When you get the Isthmus 
all asphalted over with that boll-weevil prescription, would 
you mind giving me a dose of pain-killer, or a little strychnine 
on toast to ease up this feeling of unhealthiness that I have 
got?* 

" 'They was all sassy, just like you/ says old Doc, 'but 
we lowered their temperature considerable. Yes, sir, I reckon 
we sent a good many of ye over to old mortuis nisi bonum. 
Look at Antietam and Bull Run and Seven Pines and around 
Nashville! There never was a battle where we didn’t lick ye 
unless you was ten to our one. I knew you were a blame 
Yankee the minute I laid eyes on you.* 

" ‘Don’t reopen the chasm. Doc,* I begs him. 'Any Yan- 
keeness I may have is geographical ; and, as far as I am 
concerned, a Southerner is as good as a Filipino any day. 
I’m feeling too bad to argue. Let’s have secession without 
misrepresentation, if you say so; but what I need is more 
laudanum and less Lundy’s Lane. If you’re mixing that 
compound gefloxide of gefloxicum for me, please fill my ears 
with it before you get around to the battle of Gettysburg, for 
there is a subject full of talk.” 

"By this time Doc Millikin had thrown up a line of for- 
tifications on square pieces of paper; and he says to me: 
'Yank, take one of these powders every two hours. They 
won’t kill you. I’ll be around again about sundown to see 
if you’re alive/ 


293 


Two Renegades 

“Old Doc's powders knocked the chagres. I stayed in 
San Juan, and got to knowing him better. He was from 
Mississippi, and the red-hottest Southerner that ever smelled 
mint. He made Stonewall Jackson and R. E. Lee look like 
Abolitionists. He had a family somewhere down near Yazoo 
City; but he stayed away from the States on account of an 
uncontrollable liking he had for the absence of a Yankee gov- 
ernment. Him and me got as thick personally as the Em- 
peror of Russia and the dove of peace, but sectionally we 
didn't amalgamate. 

“ 'Twas a beautiful system of medical practice introduced 
by old Doc into that isthmus of land. He'd take that bracket- 
saw and the mild chloride and his hypodermic, and treat any- 
thing from yellow fever to a personal friend. 

“Besides his other liabilities Doc could play a flute for a 
minute or two. He was guilty of two tunes — ‘Dixie’ and 
another one that was mighty close to the ‘Suwanee River’ — 
you might say one of its tributaries. He used to come down 
and sit with me while I was getting well, and aggrieve his 
flute and say unreconstructed things about the North. You’d 
have thought the smoke from the first gun at Fort Sumter 
was still floating around in the air. 

“You know that was about the time they staged them 
property revolutions down there, that wound up in the fifth 
act with the thrilling canal scene where Uncle Sam has nine 
curtain-calls holding Miss Panama by the hand, while the 
bloodhounds keep Senator Morgan treed up in a cocoanut-palm. 

“That's the way it wound up; but at first it seemed as if 
Colombia was going to make Panama look like one of the 
$3.98 kind, with dents made in it in the factory, like they 
wear at North Beach fish fries. For mine, I played the 
straw-hat crowd to win; and they gave me a colonel’s com- 
mission over a brigade of twenty-seven men in the left wing 
and second joint of the insurgent army. 


294 


Roads of Destiny 

‘‘The Colombian troops were awfully rude to us. One day 
when I had my brigade in a sandy spot, with its shoes off 
doing a battalion drill by squads, the Government army rushed 
from behind a bush at us, acting as noisy and disagreeable as 
they could. 

“My troops enfiladed, left-faced, and left the spot. After 
enticing the enemy for three miles or so we struck a brier- 
patch and had to sit down. When we were ordered to throw 
up our toes and surrender we obeyed. Five of my best staff- 
officers fell, suffering extremely with stone-bruised heels. 

“Then and there those Colombians took your friend Bar- 
ney, sir, stripped him of the insignia of his rank, consisting 
of a pair of brass knuckles and a canteen of rum, and dragged 
him before a military court. The presiding general went 
through the usual legal formalities that sometimes cause a case 
to hang on the calendar of a South American military court 
as long as ten mini’tes, He asked me my age., and then sen- 
tenced me to be shot 

“They woke up the court interpreter, an American namrd 
Jenks, who was in the rum business and vice versa, and told 
him to translate the verdict. 

“Jenks stretched himself and took a morphine tablet. 

“ ‘You've got to back up against th’ ’dobe, old man,' says he 
to me. ‘Three weeks, I believe, you get. Haven’t got a 
chew of fine-cut on you, have you?’ 

“ ‘Translate that again, with foot-notes and a glossary/ 
says I. ‘I don’t know whether I’m discharged, condemned, 
or handed over to the Gerry Society.’ 

“‘Oh/ says Jenks, ‘don’t you understand? You’re to be 
stood up against a ’dobe wall and shot in two or three weeks 
— three, I think, they said.’ 

“ ‘Would you mind asking ’em which?’ asys I. ‘ A week 
don’t amount to much after you are dead, but it seems a real 
nice long spell while you are alive.’ 


Two Renegades 295 

“ ‘It’s two weeks/ says the interpreter, after inquiring in 
Spanish of the court. ‘Shall I ask ’em again?’ 

“ ‘Let be,’ says I. ‘Let’s have a stationary verdict. If 
I keep on appealing this way they’ll have me shot about 
ten days before I was captured. No, I haven’t got any fine' 
cut.’ 

“They sends me over to the calaboza with a detachment 
of coloured postal-telegraph boys carrying Enfield rifles, and 
I am locked up in a kind of brick bakery. The temperature 
in there was just about the kind mentioned in the cooking 
recipes that call for a quick oven. 

“Then I gives a silver dollar to one of the guards to send 
for the United States consul. He comes around in pajamas, 
with a pair of glasses on his nose and a dozen or two inside 
of him. 

“ ‘I’m to be shot in two weeks,’ says I. ‘And although 
I’ve made a memorandum of it, I don’t seem to get it off my 
mind. You want to call up Uncle Sam on the cable as quick 
as you can and get him all worked up about it. Have ’em 
send the Kentucky and the Kearsarge and the Oregon down 
right away. That’ll be about enough battleships ; but it 
wouldn’t hurt to have a couple of cruisers and a torpedo-boat 
destroyer, too. And — say, if Dew r ey isn’t busy, better have 
him come along on the fastest one of the fleet.’ 

“ ‘Now, see here, O’Keefe/ says the consul, getting the 
best of a hiccup, ‘what do you want to bother the State De- 
partment about this matter for?’ 

“‘Didn’t you hear me?’ says I; ‘I’m to be shot in two 
Weeks. Did you think I said I was going to a lawn-party? 
And it wouldn’t hurt if Roosevelt could get the Japs to send 
down the Yellowyamtiskookum or the Ogotosingsing or some 
other first-class cruisers to help. It would make me feel 
safer.’ 

“ ‘Now, what you want/ says the consul, ‘is not to get 


296 


Roads of Destiny 

excited. I’ll send you over some chewing tobacco and some 
banana fritters when I go back. The United States can’t 
interfere in this. You know you were caught insurging 
against the government, and you’re subject to the laws of 
this country. Tell you the truth, I’ve had an intimation from 
the State Department — unofficially, of course — that when- 
ever a soldier of fortune demands a fleet of gunboats in a 
case of revolutionary hatzenyammer, I should cut the cable, 
give him all the tobacco he wants, and after he’s shot take 
his clothes, if they fit me, for part payment of my salary.’ 

" 'Consul,’ says I to him, 'this is a serious question. You 
are representing Uncle Sam. This ain’t any little interna- 
tional tomfoolery, like a universal peace congress or the chris- 
tening of the Shamrock IV. I’m an American citizen and 
I demand protection. I demand the Mosquito fleet, and 
Schley, and the Atlantic squadron, and Bob Evans, and Gen- 
eral E. Byrd Grubb, and two or three protocols. What are 
you going to do about it?’ 

'* ‘Nothing doing,’ says the consul. 

" 'Be off with you, then,’ says I, out of patience with him, 
'and send me Doc Millikin. Ask Doc to come and see me.’ 

"Doc comes and looks through the bars at me, surrounded 
by dirty soldiers, with even my shoes and canteen confiscated, 
and he looks mightily pleased. 

" 'Hello, Yank,’ says he, 'getting a little taste of John- 
son’s Island, now, ain’t ye ?’ 

" 'Doc,’ says I, 'I’ve just had an interview with the U. S. 
consul. I gather from his remarks that I might just as well 
have been caught selling suspenders in Kishineff under the 
name of Rosenstein as to be in my present condition. It seems 
that the only maritime aid I am to receive from the United 
States is some navy-plug to chew. Doc,’ says I, 'can’t you 
suspend hostilities on the slavery question long enough to do 
something for me?’ 


297 


Two Renegades 

“ ‘It ain’t been my habit/ Doc Millikin answers, ‘to do 
any painless dentistry when I find a Yank cutting an eye- 
tooth. So the Stars and Stripes ain’t landing any marines 
to shell the huts of the Colombian cannibals, hey? Oh, say, 
can you see by the dawn’s early light the star-spangled ban- 
ner has fluked in the fight? What’s the matter with the War 
Department, hey? It’s a great thing to be a citizen of a 
gold-standard nation, ain’t it?’ 

“ ‘Rub it in. Doc, all you want/ says I. ‘I guess we’re 
weak on foreign policy.’ 

“ ‘For a Yank/ says Doc, putting on his specs and talk- 
ing more mild, ‘you ain’t so bad. If you had come from 
below the line I reckon I would have liked you right smart. 
Now since your country has gone back on you, you have to 
come to the old doctor whose cotton you burned and whose 
mules you stole and whose niggers you freed to help you. 
Ain’t that so, Yank?’ 

“ ‘It is/ says I heartily, ‘and let’s have a diagnosis of the 
case right away, for in two weeks’ time all you can do is to 
hold an autopsy and I don’t want to be amputated if I can 
help it/ 

“ ‘Now/ says Doc, business-like, ‘it’s easy enough for you 
to get out of this scrape. Money’ll do it. You’ve got to 
pay a long string of ’em from General Pomposo down to this 
anthropoid ape guarding your door. About $10,000 will do 
the trick. Have you got the money?’ 

“‘Me?’ says I. ‘I’ve got one Chili dollar, two real 
pieces, and a medio / 

“ ‘Then if you’ve any last words, utter ’em/ says that old 
reb. ‘The roster of your financial budget sounds quite much 
to me like the noise of a requiem.’ 

“ ‘Change the treatment/ says I. ‘I admit that I’m short. 
Call a consultation or use radium or smuggle me in some 
saws or something/ 


298 


Roads of Destiny 

“ ‘Yank/ says Doc Millikin, ‘I’ve a good notion to 
help you. There’s only one government in the world that 
can get you out of this difficulty; and that’s the Confederate 
States of America, the grandest nation that ever existed.’ 

“Just as you said to me I says to Doc; ‘Why, the Confed- 
eracy ain’t a nation. It’s been absolved forty years ago.’ 

“ ‘That’s a campaign lie/ says Doc. ‘She’s running 
along as solid as the Roman Empire. She’s the only hope 
you’ve got. Now, you, being a Yank, have got to go through 
with some preliminary obsequies before you can get official 
aid. You’ve got to take the oath of allegiance to the Con- 
federate Government. Then I’ll guarantee she does all she 
can for you. What do you say, Yank? — it’s your last 
chance.’ 

“ ‘If you’re fooling with me, Doc/ I answers, ‘you’re no 
better than the United States. But as you say it’s the last 
chance, hurry up and swear me. I always did like corn 
whisky and ’possum anyhow. I believe I’m half Southerner 
by nature. I’m willing to try the Ku-klux in place of the 
khaki. Get brisk.’ 

“Doc Millikin thinks awhile, and then he offers me this 
oath of allegiance to take without any kind of a chaser: 

“ ‘I, Barnard O’Keefe, Yank, being of sound bod}^ but 
a Republican mind, hereby swear to transfer my fealty, re- 
spect, and allegiance to the Confederate States of America, 
and the government thereof in consideration of said govern- 
ment, through its official acts and powers, obtaining my free- 
dom and release from confinement and sentence of death 
brought about by the exuberance of my Irish proclivities and 
my general pizenness as a Yank.’ 

“I repeated these words after Doc, but they seemed to 
me a kind of hocus-pocus; and I don’t believe any life-insur- 
ance company in the country would have issued me a policy 
on the sfc^enp’th of ’em. 


Two Renegades 299 

“Doc went away saying he would communicate with his 
government immediately. 

“Say — you can imagine how I felt — me to be shot in 
two weeks and my only hope for help being in a government 
that’s been dead so long that it isn’t even remembered ex- 
cept on Decoration Day and when Joe Wheeler signs the 
voucher for his pay-check. But it was all there was in 
sight; and somehow I thought Doc Millikin had something up 
his old alpaca sleeve that wasn’t all foolishness. 

“Around to the jail comes old Doc again in about a week. 
I was flea-bitten, a mite sarcastic, and fundamentally hungry. 

“ 'Any Confederate ironclads in the offing?’ I asks. 'Do 
you notice any sounds resembling the approach of Jeb Stew- 
art’s cavalry overland or Stonewall Jackson sneaking up in 
the rear? If you do, I wish you’d say so.’ 

“ 'It’s too soon yet for help to come,’ says Doc. 

“ 'The sooner the better,’ says I. 'I don’t care if it gets 
in fully fifteen minutes before I am shot; and if you happen 
to lay eyes on Beauregard or Albert Sidney Johnston or any 
of the relief corps, wig- wag ’em to hike along.’ 

" ‘There’s been no answer received yet,’ says Doc. 

“ 'Don’t forget,’ says I, 'that there’s only four days more. 
I don’t know how you propose to work this thing, Doc,’ I 
says to him; ‘but it seems to me I’d sleep better if you had 
got a government that was alive and on the map — like 
Afghanistan or Great Britain, or old man Kruger’s kingdom, 
to take this matter up. I don’t mean any disrespect to your 
Confederate States, but I can’t help feeling that my chances 
of being pulled out of this scrape was decidedly weakened 
when General Lee surrendered.’ 

“ 'It’s your only chance,’ said Doc ; 'don’t quarrel with 
it. What did your own country do for you?’ 

“It was only two days before the morning I was to be shot, 
when Doc Millikin came around again. 


300 


"Roads of Destiny 

" 'All right, Yank/ says he. 'Help’s come. The Con- 
federate States of America is going to apply for your release. 
The representatives of the government arrived on a fruit- 
steamer last night.’ 

" 'Bully !’ says I — 'bully for you, Doc ! I suppose it’s 
marines with a Gatling. I’m going to love your country all 
I can for this.’ 

" 'Negotiations,” says old Doc, 'will be opened between the 
two governments at once. You will know later on to-day 
if they are successful.’ 

"About four in the afternoon a soldier in red trousers 
brings a paper round to the jail, and they unlocks the door 
and I walks out. The guard at the door bows and I bows, 
and I steps into the grass and wades around to Doc Millikin’s 
shack. 

"Doc was sitting in his hammock playing 'Dixie/ soft 
and low and out of tune, on his flute. I interrupted him at 
'Look away ! look away !’ and shook his hand for five minutes. 

" 'I never thought/ says Doc, taking a chew fretfully, 
'that I’d ever try to save any blame Yank’s life. But, Mr. 
O’Keefe, I don’t see but what you are entitled to be consid- 
ered part human, anyhow. I never thought Yanks had any 
of the rudiments of decorum and laudability about them. I 
reckon I might have been too aggregative in my tabulation. 
But it ain’t me you want to thank — it’s the Confederate 
States of America.’ 

" ‘And I’m much obliged to ’em/ says I. 'It’s a poor man 
that wouldn’t be patriotic with a country that’s saved his 
life. I’ll drink to the Stars and Bars whenever there’s a flag- 
staff and a glass convenient. But where/ says I, 'are the 
rescuing troops? If there was a gun fired or a shell burst, 
I didn’t hear it.’ 

"Doc Millikin raises up and points out the window with 
his flute at the banana-steamer loading with fruit 


301 


Two 'Renegades 

“ ‘Yank/ says he, ‘there’s a steamer that’s going to sail 
in the morning. If I was you, I’d sail on it. The Confed- 
erate Government’s done all it can for you. There wasn’t a 
gun fired. The negotiations was carried on secretly between 
the two nations by the purser of that steamer. I got him to 
do it because I didn’t want to appear in it. Twelve thousand 
dollars was paid to the officials in bribes to let you go.’ 

“ ‘Man !’ says I, sitting down hard — ‘twelve thousand — 
how will I ever — who could have — where did the money 
come from?’ 

“‘Yazoo City/ says Doc Millikin: ‘I’ve got a little saved 
up there. Two barrels full. It looks good to these Colom- 
bians. ’Twas Confederate money, every dollar of it. Now 
do you see why you’d better leave before they try to pass 
some of it on an expert?’ 

“ ‘I do/ says I. 

“ ‘Now, let’s hear you give the password, says Doc Milli- 
kin. 

“ ‘Hurrah for Jeff Davis!’ says I. 

“ ‘Correct,’ says Doc. ‘And let me tell you something; 
The next tune I learn on my flute is going to be “Yankee 
Doodle.” I reckon there’s some Yanks that are not so pizen. 
Or, if you was me, would you try “The Red, White, and 
Blue”?’ ” 


XXII 


THE LONESOME ROAD 

Brown as a coffee-berry, rugged, pistoled, spurred, wary, 
indefeasible, I saw my old friend, Desputy-Marshal Buck 
Caperton, stumble, with jingling rowels, into a chair in the 
marshal’s outer office. 

And because the court-house was almost deserted at that 
hour, and because Buck would sometimes relate to me things 
that were out of print, I followed him in and tricked him 
into talk through knowledge of a weakness he had. For, 
cigarettes rolled with sweet corn husk were as honey to Buck’s 
palate; and though he could finger the trigger of a forty^ 
five with skill and suddenness, he never could learn to roll 
a cigarette. 

It was through no fault of mine (for I rolled the cigarettes 
tight and smooth), but the upshot of some whim of his own, 
that instead of to an Odyssey of the chaparral, I listened to 
— a dissertation upon matrimony! This from Buck Caper- 
ton ! But I maintain that the cigarettes were impeccable, and 
crave absolution for myself. 

“We just brought in Jim and Bud Granberry,” said Buck. 
“Train robbing, you know. Held up the Aransas Pass last 
month. We caught ’em in the Twenty-Mile pear flat, south 
of the Nueces.” 

“Have much trouble corralling them?” I asked, for here 
was the meat that my hunger for epics craved. 

“Some,” said Buck; and then, during a little pause, his 
thoughts stampeded off the trail. “It’s kind of queer about 

302 


The Lonesome Road 


303 


women/’ he went on, “and the place they’re supposed to 
occupy in botany. If I was asked to classify them I’d say 
they was a human loco weed. Ever see a bronc that had 
been chewing loco? Ride him up to a puddle of water two 
feet wide, and he’ll give a snort and fall back on you. It 
looks as big as the Mississippi River to him. Next trip he’d 
walk into a canon a thousand feet deep thinking it was a prai- 
rie-dog hole. Same way with a married man. 

“I was thinking of Perry Rountree, that used to be my 
sidekicker before he committed matrimony. In them days me 
and Perry hated indisturbances of any kind. We roamed 
around considerable, stirring up the echoes and making ’em 
attend to business. Why, when me and Perry wanted to 
have some fun in a town it was a picnic for the census takers. 
They just counted the marshal’s posse that it took to subdue 
us, and there was your population. But then there came 
along this Mariana Goodnight girl and looked at Perry side- 
ways, and he was all bridle-wise and saddle-broke before you 
could skin a yearling. 

“I wasn’t even asked to the wedding. I reckon the bride 
had my pedigree and the front elevation of my habits all 
mapped out, and she decided that Perry would trot better in 
double harness without any unconverted mustang like Buck 
Caperton whickering around on the matrimonial range. So 
it was six months before I saw Perry again. 

“One day I was passing on the edge of town, and I see 
something like a man in a little yard by a little house with a 
sprinkling-pot squirting water on a rose-bush. Seemed to 
me, I’d seen something like it before, and I stopped at the 
gate, trying to figure out its brands. ’Twas not Perry 
Rountree, but ’twas the kind of a curdled jellyfish matri- 
mony had made out of him. 

“Homicide was what that Mariana had perpetrated. He 
was looking well enough, but he had on a white collar and 


304 


Roads of Destiny 

shoes, and you could tell in a minute that he’d speak polite 
and pay taxes and stick his little finger out while drinking, 
just like a sheep man or a citizen. Great skyrockets! but 
I hated to see Perry all corrupted and Willie-ized like that. 

“He came out to the gate, and shook hands; and I says, 
with scorn, and speaking like a paroquet with the pip : 
‘Beg pardon — Mr. Rountree, I believe. Seems to me I 
sagatiated in your associations once, if I am not mistaken/ 

“ ‘Oh, go to the devil. Buck/ says Perry, polite, as I was 
afraid he’d be. 

“ ‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘you poor, contaminated adjunct of 
a sprinkling-pot and degraded household pet, what did you 
go and do it for? Look at you, all decent and unriotous, 
and only fit to sit on juries and mend the wood-house door. 
You was a man once. I have hostility for all such acts. 
Why don’t you go in the house and count the tidies or set 
the clock, and not stand out here in the atmosphere? A jack- 
rabbit might come along and bite you/ 

“ ‘Now, Buck/ says Perry, speaking mild, and some sor- 
rowful, ‘you don’t understand. A married man has got to 
be different. He feels different from a tough old cloudburst 
like you. It’s sinful to waste time pulling up towns just to 
look at their roots, and playing faro and looking upon red 
liquor, and such restless policies as them/ 

“ ‘There was a time,’ I says, and I expect I sighed when 
I mentioned it, ‘when a certain domesticated little Mary's 
lamb I could name was some instructed himself in the line 
of pernicious sprightliness. I never expected, Perry, to see 
you reduced down from a full-grown pestilence to such a 
frivolous fraction of a man. Why/ says I, ‘you’ve got a 
necktie on; and you speak a senseless kind of indoor drivel 
that reminds me of a storekeeper or a lady. You look to 
me like you might tote an umbrella and wear suspenders, and 
go home of nights/ 


The Lonesome Road 


305 


“ 'The little woman/ says Perry, ‘has made some improve- 
ments, I believe. You can’t understand. Buck. I haven’t 
been away from the house at night since we was married.’ 

"We talked on a while, me and Perry, and, as sure as I 
live, that man interrupted me in the middle of my talk to 
tell me about six tomato plants he had growing in his garden. 
Shoved his agricultural degradation right up under my nose 
while I was telling him about the fun we had tarring and 
feathering that faro dealer at California Pete’s layout! But 
by and by Perry shows a flicker of sense. 

“ ‘Buck,’ says he. Til have to admit that it is a little dull 
at times. Not that I’m not perfectly happy with the little 
woman, but a man seems to require some excitement now and 
then. Now, I’ll tell you: Mariana’s gone visiting this after- 
noon, and she won’t be home till seven o’clock. That’s the 
limit for both of us — seven o’clock. Neither of us ever 
stays out a minute after that time unless we are together. 
Now, I’m glad you came along. Buck,’ says Perry, ‘for I’m 
feeling just like having one more rip-roaring razoo with you 
for the sake of old times. What you say to us putting in the 
afternoon having fun — I’d like it fine,’ says Perry. 

"I slapped that old captive range-rider half across his lit- 
tle garden. 

“ ‘Get your hat, you old dried-up alligator,’ I shouts, ‘you 
ain’t dead yet. You’re part human, anyhow, if you did get 
all bogged up in matrimony. We’ll take this town to pieces 
and see what makes it tick. We’ll make all kinds of profligate 
demands upon the science of cork pulling. You’ll grow horns 
yet, old muley cow,’ says I, punching Perry in the ribs, 
‘if you trot around on the trail of vice with your Uncle 
Buck.’ 

“ ‘I’ll have to be home by seven, you know,’ says Perry 
again. 

“ 'Oh, yes,’ says I, winking to myself, for I knew the kind 


306 


Roads of Destiny 

of seven o’clocks Perry Kountree got back by after he once 
got to passing repartee with the bartenders. 

“We goes down to the Gray Mule saloon — that old 'dobe 
building by the depot. 

“ 'Give it a name/ says I, as soon as we got one hoof on 
the foot-rest. 

“ 'Sarsaparilla/ says Perry. 

c 'You could have knocked me down with a lemon peeling. 

'' 'Insult me as much as you want to/ I says to Perry, 'but 
don't startle the bartender. He may have heart-disease. 
Come on, now; your tongue got twisted. The tall glasses/ I 
orders, 'and the bottle in the left-hand corner of the ice- 
chest.' 

" 'Sarsaparilla,' repeats Perry, and then his eyes get ani- 
mated, and I see he’s got some great scheme in his mind he 
wants to emit. 

“'Buck,' he says, all interested, 'I'll tell you what! I 
want to make this a red-letter day. I’ve been keeping close 
at home, and I want to turn myself a-loose. We’ll have the 
highest old time you ever saw. We'll go in the back room 
here and play checkers till half-past six.' 

“I leaned against the bar, and I says to Gotch-eared Mike, 
who was on watch: 

“ 'For God's sake don't mention this. You know what 
Perry used to be. He’s had the fever, and the doctor says 
we must humour him.' 

'' 'Give us the checker-board and the men, Mike,' says 
Perry. 'Come on. Buck, I’m just wild to have some excite- 
ment.' 

'' 'I went in the back room with Perry. Before we closed 
the door, I says to Mike: 

" 'Don't ever let it straggle out from under your hat that 
you seen Buck Caperton fraternal with sarsaparilla or 


The Lonesome Road 307 

persona grata with a checker-board, or I’ll make a swallow- 
fork in your other ear/ 

“I locked the door and me and Perry played checkers. To 
see that poor old humiliated piece of household bric-a-brac 
sitting there and sniggering out loud whenever he jumped 
a man, and all obnoxious with animation when he got into 
my king row, would have made a sheep-dog sick with morti- 
fication. Him that was once satisfied only when he was peg- 
ging six boards at keno or giving the faro dealers nervous 
prostration — to see him pushing them checkers about like 
Sally Louisa at a school-children’s party — why, I was all 
smothered up with mortification. 

“And I sits there playing the black men, all sweating for 
fear somebody I knew would find it out. And I thinks to 
myself some about this marrying business, and how it seems 
to be the same kind of a game as that Mrs. Delilah played. 
She give her old man a hair cut, and everybody knows what 
a man’s head looks like after a woman cuts his hair. And 
then when the Pharisees came around to guy him he was so 
’shamed he went to work and kicked the whole house down 
on top of the whole outfit. 'Them married men,’ thinks I, 
'lose all their spirit and instinct for riot and foolishness. 
They won’t drink, they won’t buck the tiger, they won’t even 
fight. What do they want to go and stay married for?’ I 
asks myself. 

“But Perry seems to be having hilarity in considerable 
quantities. 

“ 'Buck old hoss/ says he, 'isn’t this just the hell-roar- 
ingest time we ever had in our lives? I don’t know when I’ve 
been stirred up so. You see, I’ve been sticking pretty close 
to home since I married, and I haven’t been on a spree in a 
long time/ 

“'Spree!’ Yes, that’s what he called it. Playing check- 


308 


Roads of Destiny 

ers in the back room of the Gray Mule! I suppose it did 
seem to him a little immoral and nearer to a prolonged 
debauch than standing over six tomato plants with a sprink- 
ling-pot. 

“Every little bit Perry looks at his watch and says : 

“ ‘I got to be home, you know, Buck, at seven/ 

“ ‘All right/ I’d say. ‘Romp along and move. This 
here excitement’s killing me. If I don’t reform some, and 
loosen up the strain of this checkered dissipation I won’t have 
a nerve left/ 

“It might have been half-past six when commotions began 
to go on outside in the street. We heard a yelling and a six- 
shootering, and a lot of galloping and manoeuvres. 

“ ‘Wliat’s that?’ I wonders. 

“ ‘Oh, some nonsense outside/ says Perry. ‘It’s your 
move. We just got time to play this game.’ 

“ ‘I’ll just take a peep through the window/ says I, ‘and 
see. You can’t expect a mere mortal to stand the excitement 
of having a king jumped and listen to an unidentified conflict 
going on at the same time.’ 

“ ‘The Gray Mule saloon was one of them old Spanish ’dobe 
buildings, and the back room only had two little windows a 
foot wide, with iron bars in ’em. I looked out one, and I see 
the cause of the rucus. 

“There was the Trimble gang — ten of ’em — the worst 
outfit of desperadoes and horse-thieves in Texas, coming up 
the street shooting right and left. They was coming right 
straight for the Gray Mule. Then they got past the range 
of my sight, but we heard ’em ride up to the front door, and 
then they socked the place full of lead. We heard the big 
looking-glass behind the bar knocked all to pieces and the 
bottles crashing. We could see Gotch-eared Mike in his 
apron running across the plaza like a coyote, with the bullets 
puffing up the dust all around him. Then the gang went to 


The Lonesome Road 309 

work in the saloon, drinking what they wanted and smashing 
what they didn't. 

“Me and Perry both knew that gang, and they knew us. 
The year before Perry married, him and me was in the same 
ranger company — and we fought that outfit down on the 
San Miguel, and brought back Ben Trimble and two others 
for murder. 

“ ‘We can't get out/ says I. ‘We'll have to stay in here 
till they leave/ 

“ Perry looked at his watch. 

‘Twenty-five to seven/ says he. ‘We can finish that 
game. I got two men on you. It's your move. Buck. I got 
to be home at seven, you know/ 

“We sat down and went on playing. The Trimble gang 
had a roughhouse for sure. They were getting good and 
drunk. They’d drink a while and holler a while, and then 
they’d shoot up a few bottles and glasses. Two or three 
times they came and tried to open our door. Then there was 
some more shooting outside, and I looked out the window 
again. Ham Gossett, the town marshal, had a posse in the 
houses and stores across the street, and was trying to bag a 
Trimble or two through the windows. 

“I lost that game of checkers. I’m free in saying that 
I lost three kings that I might have saved if I had been cor- 
ralled in a more peaceful pasture. But that drivelling mar- 
ried man sat there and cackled when he won a man like an 
unintelligent hen picking up a grain of corn. 

“When the game was over Perry gets up and looks at his 
watch. 

“ ‘I’ve had a glorious time. Buck/ says he, ‘but I’ll have 
to be going now. It’s a quarter to seven, and I got to be 
home by seven, you know/ 

“I thought he was joking. 

“ ‘They’ll clear out or be dead drunk in half an hour or an 


310 


Roads of 'Destiny 

hour/ says I. ‘You ain’t that tired of being married that 
you want to commit any more sudden suicide, are you?’ says 
I, giving him the laugh. 

“ ‘One time/ says Perry, ‘I was half an hour late getting 
home. I met Mariana on the street looking for me. If you 
could have seen her, Buck — but you don’t understand. She 
knows what a wild kind of a snoozer I’ve been, and she’s 
afraid something will happen. I’ll never be late getting 
home again. I’ll say good-bye to you now, Buck.’ 

“I got between him and the door. 

“ ‘Married man/ says I, ‘I know you was christened a 
fool the minute the preacher tangled you up, but don’t you 
never sometimes think one little think on a human basis? 
There’s ten of that gang in there, and they’re pizen with 
whiskey and desire for murder. They’ll drink you up like 
a bottle of booze before you get half-way to the door. Be 
intelligent, now, and use at least wild-hog sense. Sit down 
and wait till we have some chance to get out without being 
carried in baskets.’ 

“ ‘I got to be home by seven, Buck/ repeats this hen- 
pecked thing of little wisdom, like an unthinking poll parrot. 
‘Mariana/ says he, ‘ ’ll be looking out for me.’ And he 
reaches down and pulls a leg out of the checker table. ‘I’ll 
go through this Trimble outfit/ says he, ‘like a cottontail 
through a brush corral. I’m not pestered any more with a 
desire to engage in rucuses, but I got to be home by seven. 
You lock the door after me, Buck. And don’t you forget — 
I won three out of them five games. I’d play longer, but 
Mariana — ’ 

“ ‘Hush up, you old locoed road runner/ I interrupts. ‘Did 
you ever notice your Uncle Buck locking doors against trou- 
ble? I’m not married/ says I, ‘but I’m as big a d — n 
fool as any Mormon. One from four leaves three/ says I, 
and I gathers out another leg of the table. ‘We’ll get home 


The Lonesome Road 


311 


by seven/ says I, 'whether it’s the heavenly one or the other. 
May I see you home?’ says I, 'you sarsaparilla-drinking, 
checker-playing glutton for death and destruction/ 

"We opened the door easy, and then stampeded for the 
front. Part of the gang was lined up at the bar; part of ’em 
was passing over the drinks, and two or three was peeping 
out the door and window taking shots at the marshal’s crowd. 
The room was so full of smoke we got half-way to the front 
door before they noticed us. Then I heard Berry Trimble’s 
voice somewhere yell out: 

" 'How’d that Buck Caperton get in here?’ and he skinned 
the side of my neck with a bullet. I reckon he felt bad over 
that miss, for Berry’s the best shot south of the Southern 
Pacific Railroad. But the smoke in the saloon was some too 
thick for good shooting. 

"Me and Perry smashed over two of the gang with our 
table legs, which didn’t miss like the guns did, and as we 
run out the door I grabbed a Winchester from a fellow who 
Was watching the outside, and I turned and regulated the ac- 
count of Mr. Berry. 

"Me and Perry got out and around the corner all right. 
I never much expected to get out, but I wasn’t going to be 
intimidated by that married man. According to Perry’s idea, 
checkers was the event of the day, but if I am any judge of 
gentle recreations that little table-leg parade through the 
Gray Mule saloon deserved the head-lines in the bill of par- 
ticulars. 

" 'Walk fast,’ says Perry, 'it’s two minutes to seven, and 
I got to be home by — ’ 

" ‘Oh, shut up/ says I. 'I had an appointment as chief 
performer at an inquest at seven, and I’m not kicking about 
not keeping it.’ 

"I had to pass by Perry’s little house. His Mariana was 
standing at the gate, We got there at five minutes past seven. 


312 


Roads of Destiny 

She had on a blue wrapper, and her hair was pulled back 
smooth like little girls do when they want to look grown- 
folksy. She didn’t see us till we got close, for she was gaz- 
ing up the other way. Then she backed around, and saw 
Perry, and a kind of look scooted around over her face — 
danged if I can describe it. I heard her breathe long, just 
like a cow when you turn her calf in the lot, and she says: 
‘You’re late. Perry.’ 

“ ‘Five minutes,’ says Perry, cheerful. ‘Me and old Buck 
was having a game of checkers.’ 

“Perry introduces me to Mariana, and they ask me to come 
in. No, sir-ee. I’d had enough truck with married folks for 
that day. I says I’ll be going along, and that I’ve spent 
a very pleasant afternoon with my old partner — ‘especially,’ 
says I, just to jostle Perry, ‘during that game when the table 
legs came all loose.’ But I’d promised him not to let her 
know anything. 

“I’ve been worrying over that business ever since it hap- 
pened,” continued Buck. “There’s one thing about it that’s 
got me all twisted up, and I can’t figure it out.” 

“What was that?” I asked, as I rolled and handed Buck 
the last cigarette. 

“Why, I’ll tell you: When I saw the look that little 
woman give Perry when she turned round and saw him com- 
ing back to the ranch safe — why was it I got the idea all 
in a minute that that look of hers was worth more than the 
whole caboodle of us — sarsaparilla, checkers, and all, and 
that the d — n fool in the game wasn’t named Perry Roun- 
tree at all?” 


THE END 




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